


How Strange, Innocence

by Heroesareoverwith



Series: Explosions In The Sky [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Help, M/M, Magic, Magic!Stiles, Mildly Dubious Consent, Seduction, Temporary Blindness, You need to be more concerned about beautiful girls, alcohol consumption, angst I guess?, bit of blood magic probably, good!peter?, i can't tag, it's the sequellllll, mention of drugs, not between stiles and peter, not for the reason you think, slooowwwww burn, the figure is not a concern right now, underage Stiles until he turns 18 in this book, we don't know yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heroesareoverwith/pseuds/Heroesareoverwith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Stiles and Peter have decided that they will be working on magic together, they are putting each other to the test.  Peter proves he's not a monster.  Always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snow and Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is Book 2 of my five book series for the Explosions in the Sky work. I have got to say, I am like...crazy surprised just that I have been motivated enough to do this haha. But all of you wonderful people have totally helped out on the motivation, so thank you. I hope you enjoy the start of Book 2, How Strange, Innocence. This book will mostly be focusing on Stiles actually becoming a badass at magic. And some other stuff too.
> 
> Shout out to CloveeD, as usual! My darling, my darling, she is so helpful to me.

"Jesus fuck!"

The curse echoed through the woods, bounced off the trees, and landed right back on a teen boy with his hand covered in dirt and a werewolf rolling his eyes at another failed attempted. The two of them had been working on this for three weeks, and although this was only Stiles' sixth or seventh attempt at actually _using_ the magic, it was a far more slow going process than either of them had expected.

Really, he hadn't even felt comfortable enough to attempt it until his second week of memorizing, memorizing, memorizing in the mornings. He was practically chanting the foreign words in his mind at all hours of the day, but he made sure only to actually read the book in the morning. Attempting it at dusk was a bit harder. It pulled his energy away so quickly.

And it wasn't like the first spell in the book was _hard_ to learn, just a basic disappearing spell. It was just that Stiles was kind of nervous that maybe, you know, he ended up saying the wrong word and would suddenly spring a tail, or a third arm, or six eyes, who knew? It was magic.

It was weird though, because Peter seemed to have total faith in him (well, as much faith as Peter could manage to have in him). He was still pretty snarky most of the time, and he did get a little intense if he felt like Stiles wasn't focusing enough. Then again, Peter didn't want to end up with a tail, or a third arm, or six eyes either. (Or maybe he did, Peter was weird.)

"Again!" The werewolf snapped at him from across the clearing.

Stiles had been standing, one arm held out to his side, parallel to the ground, with a handful of soil, the other wrapped around his precious, electric, leather book, for the past hour. The sun had almost completely set in the sky, and the temperature was dropping. Fast.

It was February, and somehow managed to be outrageously cold in Palo Alto. Stiles didn't think it got so cold down this far in California, and yet it proved to surprise him nonetheless. What made it worse was that he wasn't even wearing a coat. Just him, a simple t-shirt, jeans, and the voltaic heat of the book to keep him warm.

Really, the magic did warm him to the core anyway. Any time he practiced, it seemed like a small fire was settling in his stomach, that it tried to filter into his blood, circuit through the veins in his body, tried to rise up out of his mouth into the air above them. But any time he opened his mouth, it was just fogged breath, rather than flames.

Still, he tried.

He took a deep breath, blocked out any thoughts from his mind (a tough feat), focused on the words below him. And even as they started to dance on the page, practically seemed to rearrange themselves as if they didn't want to be read, he worked on pronouncing them clearly, slowly, pointedly. Each syllable had its own meaning, and each meaning needed to be displayed through words.

His arm shook in its place, though he couldn't tell if it was because the magic was working, or because he had been holding it up for so long.

Suddenly, the air seemed to crackle. The humidity seemed to rise around him, sink into the air, make it that much harder to breathe. The dirt in his hand became hotter, burned, seared, made him want to let go.

But he didn't.

Stiles held tightly onto the pile of earth in his hand, didn’t want one grain to slip between his fingers. He pressed in harder, harder.

At least, until it was gone.

His hand seemed to slip through the pile of dirt, hit his palm where it was red, and swollen, and sweaty. Stiles stopped his chant as the words on the page disappeared, and he glanced out at his hand, still outstretched, still tightly clamped closed.  
The air became still, placid, nothingness, as Stiles continued to stand there, silent and looking at his closed hand. It was still hot and muggy; it ached in his lungs. But there was something different this time; there was something about the feel of the air, about the feel of his hand. There was nothing in his hand.

Peter, who had been still this entire time, finally moved, if only slightly. His face changed, it dropped from the hardened look that had been there to an excited, almost apprehensive sight. His lips parted, his eyebrows lifted, his chest moved in and out, so, so slowly. He perked up overall.

Stiles felt like he was watching everything in slow motion, felt that time around him had paused just to see if he had...

As he opened his hand, pulled his fingers out one by one, no soil dropped to the ground.

He looked up at Peter, once again, watched the man as he released the last of each little limb.

The werewolf looked so eager, so pleased, so proud and so...

"It's gone," Stiles said softly, more out of disbelief, turning his hand and spreading his fingers out as wide as they could go before he curled them, like he was palming an imaginary basketball. The only trace of dirt on his hand was the remnants of a dusting stuck between the creases there. There was no fistful, no pile on the ground.

He stared down at his palm for a moment, too confused and too in shock to really react how he should. He should be jumping for joy. He should be shouting, screaming, flailing, doing something that Stiles would do. But all he could do in the too-still air, the calm mugginess, the frozen time, was stare.

At least, until Peter was suddenly in front of him.

The older man took his hand, delicately, as if Stiles was a thing that was easily breakable (in Peter’s mind he was). He brushed his fingers along his palm, feather-light touches, and with it being so sensitive, Stiles shivered, but didn't pull away. Peter investigated, glanced at the ground, looked into the air. Then he smirked, leisurely, calmly, sweetly.

"Gone it is," Peter finally said while releasing Stiles' hand and taking a step back.

Suddenly, Stiles felt like he could breathe again. And he took a large, gasping breath. The burning sensation in his hand seemed to dissipate in tingling waves. Like Peter’s assurance made the fact true.

He had just done magic. He just completed his first magic spell. He did it. He achieved it. He had made something disappear. The spell that he had been working on for the past three weeks, had failed at constantly, had burned his hand on, had exhausted himself with. He finally was able to make it work.

A grin spread itself across his face without him actually meaning for it, and he grabbed onto Peter's bicep excited. His whole body vibrated, and he tried hard to reign in his limbs as they wanted to burst away from him. "I did it! Holy shit I actually, totally did it!"

Peter clapped a hand over his, opened his mouth, and Stiles heard the start of a sentence come out, something like "Remember, don't get too excited or you'll--"

The world faded.

The last thing he could remember was falling, falling, falling. And then he was caught, and held close. There was warmth, but it wasn't the same warmth that he had felt with the magic. It wasn't too hot; it wasn't scalding. It was just...warm. The air around him smelled...good. It smelled woodsy. It smelled spicy. It smelled musky. It smelled masculine.

A moment later, he couldn't remember anything.

~~~

The first thing Stiles realized when he woke was that he was no longer in the woods.

The next thing he realized was that his eyes weren't opening.

Shit. 

Shit, shit, shit! Fuck, he’d made himself blind. He was blind. Magic made him blind.

He tried to get his bearings, felt around. He was definitely in a bed, but he wasn't sure if he was his bed. 

Scratch that, definitely not his bed because it was much larger, much more comfortable than a dorm bed could be. And were those....were those silk sheets? It felt like floating on water.

Turning his head to the side, he caught a whiff of cologne that made him flash back, made him remember, made him tense slightly. Woodsy. Spicy. Musky. Masculine.

Peter. He was in Peter's bed. Peter's.

He had borrowed Peter's clothes, showered in Peter's apartment, and now he was in Peter's bed. If only the pack could see him now.

Could anyone blame him that he quickly shuffled his hands down his body, just to check that he was fully clothed? (He was. But it was fairly common knowledge that Peter could be a little skeevy.)

So why weren't his eyes opening?

Really, his body ached like he'd been hit by a bus too. Who knew that magic was going to kick his ass this hard?

Apparently Peter knew, seeing as he was in the guy’s bed.

And holy Hell, his hand was killing him. 

Slowly, with as little effort as possible, Stiles shifted, pulled the sheets down, felt his way toward the edge of the bed so that he could get up. He couldn't even tell if Peter was in the room with him.

How long had he been out? When had he last eaten? Did he miss any classes? Had Peter just dropped him off and left? What happened after he'd succeeded with the spell? Was this blindness permanent? That would really suck. _Really_ suck. Not that he gave his mind time to think about it.

Stiles stumbled out of the bed, almost tripping over a sheet before he caught himself on what...a dresser? A table?

He couldn't even see what Peter's room looked like. Which sucked balls, but whatever.

The teen fumbled and tripped his way toward what he hoped was the door to the hallway, running his hand along the wall. Should he even be moving at this point?

"Peter?" He called out, his voice was a weak, hissing, hoarse version of itself. Like the magic had even exhausted his vocal chords to the point of not vibrating correctly. He opened the doorknob to whatever door he'd found.

"You know, you really shouldn't be up yet," came from behind him, from the other side of the room, and Stiles stopped immediately. Wrong door.

"Why can't I see?"

"You exerted too much energy. The spell is taking one of your senses in turn. Shouldn't last more than an hour or two more."

"How do you know that?"

"I got some very good advice from a professional."

A professional? “Did you call Deaton?” Stiles heard a click of tongue against teeth. Displeasure. So, not Deaton. "Do I get to know who it is?"

"Maybe later." This time his voice sounded closer, his presence felt closer. Stiles reached a hand out slowly, unsure if Peter would even be fine with him grabbing hold. Unsure if Peter would even help him more than he already had. Peter wasn't exactly the giving sort.

But when his hand landed on what he hoped was shoulder, Peter didn't tense, or move away.

"I originally had you on the couch. Which I was scolded for. But don't worry, your delicate teenage form is still perfectly safe." Peter patted his cheek in a condescending sort of way, a few sharp taps with three fingers. (Like Stiles wasn't already humiliated enough.)

"I am so relieved, Creep," Stiles grumbled back to him. He tightened his grip momentarily as he started to feel a little weak again. There was the fear of falling again, falling with no sight and everything to hit on the way down.

"I'll remember to leave you in the woods next time."

"I'm surprised you didn't this time."

"Stiles," he sounded like he was trying too hard to be offended. "Now why would you ever think that of me? I'd be lost without you eating half of the contents of my fridge."

"'m sure you'd get by." He went for as dry as possible, but there was a slight slur to his words as he became lightheaded again.

Peter pulled away from him, which wasn't really a good thing, because Stiles immediately started to sway. He assumed that forward would probably be the best option, and just as he felt himself start to tip in that direction, two large hands grabbed his shoulders from behind. Then he was being steered, pushed, none too gently, and ended up stumbling into the bed, falling forward onto it.

In a quick rush he gathered the smell of cologne, and shampoo, lotions, oils, something. Okay, so Peter's bed may have smelled just a bit like a head shop. But it was good. It was...

"Sleep, just a few more hours. Shout if you need anything. I've e-mailed your professors."

"How'd 'jou know m'password?" Stiles tried to grumble, because Peter would have needed to get his class list from somewhere. Would have had to be on the school's website.

And he was certain that Peter said something. _Knew_ Peter said something, but he didn't hear it. Everything began to sound like it was coming into his ears through cotton balls.

And then there was nothing.

~~~

As Stiles came back to his second time, the first thing he did was open his eyes.

His sight was blurry, maybe a little faded around the edges, but he could see.

So he, of course, ravenously took in the look of Peter's room. It was a place in the apartment he’d never been before. It was the room of _Peter Hale_. It was like finding a lost gold mine, even if it was a bit more lackluster, in the end, than he’d hoped.

Wasn’t an evil lair, at least.

It was large, and painted a dark, rich blue. His bed was a four poster, and had warm, smooth, black silk sheets, and large pillows. He even had a dark blue comforter to match his walls.

There was a dresser. There were a few paintings on the walls. There were two bookcases to one side of the bed, and a nightstand on the other. There were three doors, Stiles assumed for closet, bathroom, and hallway.

The window was open, just a little bit. Enough to give a pleasant chill to the air.

He kind of wanted to stick his hand outside into the chill, it might help.

Still, he got up from the bed, his body not quite ready and fighting him the entire time. He ached. Every muscle in his body seemed to groan with protest as he placed his feet on the floor and stood up. At least he didn't feel quite so light headed.

Just had he stretched his arms up over his head and yawned, Peter appeared in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He looked...he looked like his bed smelled.

"How are you feeling?" The werewolf asked, though Stiles couldn't tell if he actually cared or not.

He shrugged a shoulder in response while he lowered his arms down. "I mean, I've felt better. But I've felt worse."

"Come. You need food, water, sustenance." Peter curled a finger, beckoning him closer.

And Stiles totally listened. It was actually the worst. But still, he followed, and Peter led him to the kitchen where there was a sandwich and a large glass of water. The werewolf waved him in and then left once again, back to sit on his chair Stiles assumed. He was probably reading.

"You couldn't have gotten me curly fries?" Stiles asked, playing with humor in his voice.

"You couldn't have listened when I told you not to get too excited in the woods?"

"Touché," Stiles grumbled.

The teen grabbed the plate and glass before walking out to the living room with Peter, taking his normal place on the couch across from the older man. Peter simply looked up from where he was reading, cheek perched on his fist and his legs stretched out and crossed over the coffee table, eyebrows raised. The perfect view of relaxation and poise, akin to a large cat at rest, but coiled and at the ready if necessary.

"If you get crumbs on the floor I expect you to clean them up," Peter told him calmly. He flipped the next page loudly.

"If I had known a few years ago that all it took to irritate you would be to put bread crumbs all over, then the loft would have been filled ants and bread like every day."

"Your mastermind pranks are astounding."

While Stiles ate his sandwich in quiet, for once, he examined Peter briefly. He felt too much staring would irritate the werewolf, and he wasn't exactly in a state to fight anything off. But he couldn’t really help it.

He still had a million questions. And each one of them was countered by a thought from the past.

What had he actually achieved with the magic spell? Why was Peter helping him? Why hadn't Peter been so helpful and kind before? Was he plotting something? He was always plotting something, of course he was plotting something. But what did being nice to Stiles have to do with anything? Would his hand be okay? Would he be able to do magic again? Or was it a fluke? Why did Peter know so much about magic? After all, he did bring himself back from the dead with a spell. How much magic could Peter actually do?

"Yes?" The werewolf asked without looking up this time.

Caught.

"It's nothing, never mind, don't worry about it," Stiles answered quickly before shoving his mouth too full of sandwich.

Peter sighed, but didn't question him further. So Stiles ate, and drank, and tried to quiet the million thoughts swarming through his mind. The food definitely helped him feel better though. He got a bit more energy, felt less lethargic; his muscles seemed to loosen from their riled tension.

And when he was finished, he placed the plate gently on the table, finished off his water, and intentionally looked at Peter. He was getting some questions answered.

"So, the spell worked, right?" He asked first, tongue darting out to wet his lips nervously.

Seeming to understand that Stiles wasn't waiting anymore, Peter carefully closed his old book, placed it on the table to the side of the chair, and straightened, his hands lacing together over his lap. "Yes. It worked. You made the bit of earth disappear. Unfortunately, you also don't know enough to balance it with making something appear, so it was a bit off kilter."

"But I'll learn how to make something appear? Just randomly?"

"Start small, get bigger,” Peter smirked at him. “You aren't skilled enough, and your body needs to adjust to using magic, which is why you passed out in the woods. It takes more practice, more skill. No one said it would be easy, or really all that healthy."

"But I'll get stronger?" Stiles asked, glancing down at his hands.

"Oh," Peter said, a sharp, dangerous lilt, hard to place, to his voice, "I have _no_ doubt about that, Stiles."

"So, that spell was to make something disappear. Started small with dirt. I can do that with large objects?"

"Eventually without even the chanting. Once you actually master getting your body under control, get used to having so many energies pulled through you, get used to being drained, you'll be able to match even the best warlocks, I'm sure."

"Warlock?" That word hadn't come up before. It was weird, it was odd. Stiles wasn't sure if he liked it. It sounded so sinister. A poisoned, liquidly sound that caught in the back of his throat. Warlock.

"Do you prefer wizard? I think it's a bit too Harry Potter for my taste."

"No, uh, warlock is...warlock is cool." He stumbled over himself, unsure of what to think of that. Warlock. He was going to be a warlock. A druid. A wizard. Something. He wasn't just the simple, fragile, breakable human anymore. He was going to be so much more.

"Superb." Peter stood from the chair and walked over to the couch. "You should take a few days to rest before we try anything more. Give your hand some time to heal, give yourself some time to get your spark back up to par."

It felt weird. It suddenly felt like Peter was telling him not to come by. Which was a lie, because he just wanted Stiles to rest up. Peter was worried about his well being right? Not that Stiles should even care. He shouldn't be bothered that Peter didn't want to see him.

But it almost felt like a rejection. His stomach sank too low, his throat felt tighter.

And it was all completely illogical of course, and it was probably only because he was tired but, he couldn’t help feeling hurt.

"Yeah, sure, then um, I should probably get going."

Peter's brow scrunched in confusion. He seemed caught off guard a moment. Stiles quickly realized that his smell might have given something away and ached to cover it somehow.

"I'm not kicking you out, Stiles," Peter told him, tried to placate his mood.

"Oh, yeah, I know, I should just, cause you know I have work and everything." He was being childish. This was stupid and he knew it. He quickly gathered his things and got up from the couch. But Peter was right there, and kind of overbearing, and even if Stiles was taller than the man, he still felt incredibly small next to him. He caved in on himself slightly, backed away from Peter, who advanced after him, all quiet power and silent threat.

He made it to the door, but Peter grabbed the knob before he could, practically forcing Stiles to look up at him as the werewolf leaned into his path out. Peter was blocking him in. The man opened his mouth to say something, but looked stuck for a moment. Just a moment, then he was back to his smooth talking, his reserved visage. "I'll expect you tomorrow."

"Who says I'll come over?"

"Because I've seen you nearly every day for the past three weeks."

"Yeah, but--"

"Stiles. I'll see you tomorrow."

And Peter opened the door, motioned him out. Stiles followed the hand, perplexed, and maybe just a bit relieved. No, Peter really wasn't kicking him out. Peter didn't say he couldn't come over; he just wanted Stiles to rest. Which, yes, it was relieving, and yes, he already knew.

But the more stubborn side of him decided that no. He wouldn't be seeing Peter for a few days.

He needed to catch up with Thomas and Jaylen anyway.

~~~

It really did take him a few days to recover.

Stiles hadn't realized how much energy would be zapped from him after a successful magic spell. For three days after he felt like his world was off balance, like it was spinning on the wrong axis. He practically had to drag himself to class, he slept in past his alarms, he had even _more_ trouble focusing on homework. It was a mess.

Thomas was concerned. He was nervous about the amount of time Stiles was spending with someone he seemed to want to reject so quickly when he had run into Peter at the bookstore the first time. But Jaylen didn't seem worried about him. She just told him to drink his fluids, told him to make sure he was eating, and to try and create an inner peace or something. Stiles had kind of stopped listening.

But it did make him wonder how much Jaylen knew. Especially how much she knew about magic.

After four days, however, Stiles woke up feeling better than normal. Way better. It didn't feel like anything cost him energy. He walked to class with a little jump in his step. He completed his homework in no time flat. He even had a successful conversation with Scott. (Okay, not so much conversation as a “What's up bro?” “Not much, pretty much the same here. How are you man?” “I'm pretty cool, dude.” But the point was that they talked, okay?)

When he felt caught up on his work, and fully prepared for a couple of quizzes he had coming up, Stiles decided to make his way back over to Peter's so that they could work on the spell.

He had at least continued trying to memorize it early in the morning, muttering it to himself while his roommate slept on the other side of the dorm room. It felt fairly memorized in his mind, so he debated even bringing the book with him to Peter's.

Maybe just as a safety blanket.

He gathered his things, and made the journey, his phone seeming to pick each and every song he wanted to listen to, exactly in the order he wanted to listen to them. It was great. The weather was warming up a bit, even if it was still February, it all seemed to fit together perfectly.

Except, when he got to Peter's and buzzed the intercom, he didn't receive a buzz back.

Just in case Peter was unavailable for some reason, or by even weirder chance didn't hear it, he buzzed again.

After standing awkwardly on the steps of the apartment complex for a few minutes, Stiles cursed to himself over not texting ahead.

But Peter was always home. What did he have to go and do? Really? It wasn't like he seemed to work. 

Was it possible that he was with someone? That he actually had a friend to go see, or one of those acquaintances?

Was it possible that Peter was on a date?

The idea left a sour taste in his mouth, if only because Stiles didn't really see Peter as the dating kind. Maybe the creepy one-night-stand kind. Maybe the schmoozing, circulating, flirty kind. But Stiles couldn't actually imagine him going out on a date, getting dressed up for someone. Sweet talking someone.

Who would want to date Peter anyway? The guy was a devious, self-absorbed jerk. Right? He shouldn't be going around luring unsuspecting women to their deaths. It just wasn't right. Yeah. That was it.

Clenching his hand tighter around the strap of his backpack, Stiles decided that it really wasn't that big of a deal if he tried the spell on his own.

He'd practiced it enough. He succeeded earlier in the week. He could totally do it.

Which was how he ended up in the woods, alone, a handful of dirt stretched out and parallel to the ground. The book curled in his other arm as his safety blanket.

The air felt electrifying. The air felt hot. Stiles' body began to burn, his hand began to sear. And as he whispered the words of the spell, his tongue curling perfectly as if he could draw the shape of each syllable, the world began to shift.

He had done it once, and he would do it again. Even without Peter.

Peter?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure move. And as desperately as he wanted to look to see if it was the werewolf, he couldn't tear his sight from the page, from the words, sprawled so haphazardly over the parchment sheets.

Then the figure was gone.

What if someone saw him do magic? What if someone saw him? He hadn't even thought about hunters, actual hunters. He hadn't thought about hikers.

Suddenly, the idea of a werewolf being out there to be his eyes and ears made a lot more sense.

Just as the soil disappeared from his hand, his fingertips touched his palm, his hand ached and burned, a different, but much more familiar figure approached him from the other side. This one tall, hands in his pockets, and quite aware of what the teen was doing.

"You know, it's really not all that bright for you to be working on this alone. If you pass out again, no one will be here to make sure you don't go missing a head."

Stiles didn't even bother to look up at the werewolf. He simply glanced at his hand, looked to see if he had completely gotten rid of all of the soil, and then opened the book once more. Nothing would break his focus.

As he tried to flip the pages with his red, swollen hand, Peter's hand moved in front, Peter's hand flipped a few pages. Peter’s hand pointed to a new line of a spell. Much easier, much smaller, but much more of an achievement.

Stiles swallowed thickly, tried to get the mugginess out of the air, and then skimmed the spell. He'd looked at it before, but never practiced it. But it had to be...it had to be the one that Peter was discussing before. The spell to make things appear?

"I would go with something elemental if I were you," Peter suggested.

So Stiles thought, and Stiles read, chanted. He couldn’t be bothered to ask where Peter had been, couldn’t be bothered to mention the figure in the woods, couldn’t spare any time for anything else but magic.

The heat disappeared. The mugginess seemed to evaporate into the air. And he was left, chilled to the bone with cold electricity licking at his fingertips, flickering through his scorched hand.

Peter stood away from him, observed him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His presence was different. He wasn't as excited, as amused, as oddly hopefully. He seemed colder, distant. And the air reflected it.

That's when Stiles felt something chill touch his nose, something wet.

The words faded out on the page, disappeared before his eyes, and he was left exhausted, drained, heavy.

"Look up," Peter told him, his voice soft, but guarded.

Slowly, Stiles lifted his eyes to the sky. Grey clouds and filled in from the early gorgeous day blue. And drifting down lazily from those grey clouds were thick, white snowflakes.

It was snowing this far down in California. How normal was? Hadn’t happened that year. Had it ever happened when the rest of the day was in the high 50s?

Stiles stared at the sky, mouth agape, as the flakes continued to come down, and down, and down.

It didn't catch on the ground. It didn't settle or start to form, but it also didn't stop falling.

Slowly, Stiles stretched out his hand, let the small crystals fall onto the swollen redness there, let them sooth it. And when he finally looked at Peter, the older man was watching him, the smallest smirk on his face, or maybe it was a smile.

His irritable air was suddenly gone.

Peter walked closer to Stiles, moved him, steered him to the top of a hill, all hushed and secret between the two of them. Just the two of them. 

And as they looked down at the city, the night sky, the moist heavy clouds, stretching over in a silent war for power, trying to win against the millions of lights flickering on, combating with snow like falling stars, and stars, and stars, Stiles’ breath caught in his lungs. Over the snow and lights, Stiles' chest began to swell. He felt dizzy, high.

He had made a small little handful of earth disappear, and now...

"You made quite the big storm," Peter mentioned, motioning a hand out at the city.

"Yeah," Stiles said softly, too in shock at the fact that he _did_ that. He made that. He made it snow. And it seemed to stretch on for miles, farther than he could see.

They stood there quietly, observing his hard work with pride, with the slightest bit of awe. Two people Stiles never imagined would work so well together. The person whom Stiles really didn’t want to work so well with.

He glanced at Peter, as the werewolf stood, eyes cast out over the city, breathing in the cooling, damp night air. The werewolf stood in some weirdly aggressive, particularly sensual way, his hips tilted outward, a hand still resting on Stiles’ lower back like he had forgotten it was there. The warmth heating Stiles’ skin, bringing goosebumps to his arms. The whole scene was so calming, so…

And yet Peter still maintained this glint in his eyes, a light coming off broken glass, and Stiles was reminded that yes, he was a dangerous man.

Stiles was dangerous now too.

Stiles had performed magic, and he had succeeded again.

Though he felt ready to collapse in on himself, he couldn't help the fact that he wanted to jump for joy, shout from the top of the hill. Hell, even dance with the dangerous man beside him out of complete, utter, uninhibited exuberance.

 _Stiles Stilinski was no longer just a spark._ He was well on his way to being a warlock.

And Peter Hale had been the one to help make that happen.

As Stiles felt his legs buckle underneath him, felt his vision begin to darken at the edges. He grasped Peter's shoulder quickly.

Then the world faded again. Leaving Stiles with the memory of deep, masculine, woodsy musk, a warm hand print, and cold snow.


	2. Magic Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles continues to practice magic. Peter is incredibly amused, when he is not disappointed. Another case emerges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy! Sorry this took a bit longer to come out! Luckily, I will have like, three more chapters up this week. I went on vacation. Don't have time today to write too many notes, ah! Will explain later!
> 
> Thanks to CloveeD!!!!
> 
> And I love you all for reading and commenting and kudoing and everything! <33333

There had been another presence in the woods that day.

Peter didn't entirely know what was responsible for the presence, but it was so thickly malevolent it was almost choking. He hadn't told Stiles about it. He wasn't sure if the boy had even noticed, he had been so busy with the spell. It was probably better that he didn’t know about it, or else it would make him lose concentration. Or keep him from returning to the woods to practice, for fear it would come back.

But this presence, it wasn't a human, that was the most important fact. There would be no one running off to the authorities to scream "witch" and raise the torches and pitchforks from seeing a boy casting a spell in the middle of the woods. There had already been enough confusion, maybe panic, over the freak snow storm.

The bigger question was: why were there so many supernatural forces that seemed to be making their way into this city? It was normal for a supernatural creature to occasionally pass through, maybe every year or so, a city. That was if they didn't initially live there. Yet somehow there had been three creatures in less than a year, two of which arrived after Stiles had moved in.

Maybe that was something to investigate at a later date. Because maybe it was Stiles, though Peter didn’t want to think about it, not yet, not at present.

For now, the only thing Peter wanted to focus on, the only thing he wanted Stiles to focus on, was magic. Well, alright, his school did need to come in as well, but that was still less important than magic in Peter's opinion.

Would Stiles' dad prefer Stiles learning magic and attending school or dead?

That was an easy answer.

Peter would keep his senses open for the malevolent presence, the shadowy figure, and he would definitely keep his eye out for anything or anyone who wanted to hurt Stiles.

He just needed to remind himself that he was not teaching Stiles as a friend, he wasn't helping Stiles as a friend. He was there to infiltrate, make a place in Stiles' life so that he would be accepted by the Beacon Hills pack, if he so chose.

But Stiles didn't think of him as a friend either. Just a companion, just a person that was a temporary replacement for the pack he desired to be connected with, needed to be with. Just as Peter was for Stiles, right?

Which was why he was trying not to let Stiles' irritating stunt of four days’ absence from Peter's apartment get to him all that much. There _had_ been a sour smell on Stiles the day Peter told him to rest, and it amounted to Stiles trying to _prove_ something to himself. Peter had hurt him, so in turn Stiles was trying, and failing, to hurt Peter by simply not being present. They were stupid, immature, little mind games, usually played by those in intimate relationships as opposed the professional relationship that they had.

Stiles was trying to prove that he didn't need Peter, as well as trying to punish Peter for saying the wrong thing.

Peter just needed to let Stiles know that the absence of his presence wasn't a punishment, but a reward. At least, he needed to pretend to prove that.

Stiles coming to his apartment while he wasn't there, while he was out for a walk to remind himself that the boy’s presence wasn't needed, happened at just the right moment. Stiles was assured that Peter was not waiting around, twiddling his thumbs, and anxiously anticipating a random visit. Peter was busy, Peter had things to do, he had a life that didn’t include Stiles.  
It had worked too. The teen hadn't tried to play mind games since. Not that he wouldn't lose if he tried, after all mind games were Peter's specialty, even if they were at such an immature level they were hardly worth it.

But the teen had been prompt each and every day since that day in the woods where Stiles made it snow.

Once Stiles had proven to himself that he could actually do the magic, it was like the flood gates opened.

When his mind was set to something, the teen was absolutely unstoppable. Learning magic was no different in this case. He said he would learn, and learn he did, with a particular kind of voraciousness that Peter rarely ever saw in other people.

Stiles was _hungry_. Stiles _craved_ magic.

Once his stamina started building up, once he continued to see results in his work, Stiles was absolutely insatiable.

Peter adored it, savored it, not that he would admit it. But he watched Stiles with a quiet reverence, or maybe proudness, that he didn’t feel often. He refused to think on it, and simply relished in it.

They were well into the end of March, and Stiles had done a magnificent job of working on magic all the while doing his school work. He was often in Peter's apartment with several different books around him, taking notes on various topics while chanting to himself.

Peter was rendered absolutely useless in attempting to keep Stiles away, or even bother him while he worked so studiously. It was a new experience, because normally Peter fully supported being a distraction, irritating just for the amusement of it. But as long as Stiles was coming to his apartment to work, instead of dragging Peter to campus, he had more than enough in his apartment to keep him entertained.

Stiles' scent had become a constant intruder in Peter's apartment as well. In fact, there weren't many places that didn't have the mix of werewolf and human, and Peter would be more annoyed by it if he didn't secretly enjoy the mixture so much.

Even his bed now smelled of Stiles, which was more of an aberration, as opposed to a strictly good or bad thing. A new scent, the smell of another living thing in his bed, his den when he didn’t ever expect it to be there; it was peculiar.

In the end, he and Stiles were spending hours and hours together each week, something that Peter needed to adjust to, get used to.

He'd needed to make extreme changes to his daily routine. Oh, woe was him.

***

When they had practiced Stiles conjuring flame, the boy sat cross-legged on the ground, his hands resting palm up on his knees. Peter had been watching from at least a hundred meters, and Stiles didn't ask him to come closer, which the werewolf was wordlessly appreciative of.

He wasn’t all that fond of fire, after all.

The teen hadn't been focusing properly, and Peter was not particularly willing for the woods to catch on fire around him, so he had shouted for Stiles to pay attention.

Just as he did, a flame burst from Stiles' hand, a large, rushing, rolling cloud of fire rising up into the air and caving in on itself, smoke billowing out from all sides.

Peter had been torn between rushing over to see if Stiles was fine and staying far, far away from that kind of heat. So he made it halfway, and waited, nearly anxious, crouched and prepared to run in haste to give aid, as the smoke cleared away. And he was left looking at the ash-darkened face of the teen, who simply blinked to life, then coughed hoarsely.

Stiles was completely missing his eyebrows.

Peter was proud that it took him a whole five minutes before he started making fun of the boy relentlessly.

***

"No, I can do this," Stiles insisted, pulling his shoulder away from Peter's grip.

"You’re not supposed to put your hands together," the wolf answered, trying to move closer again to put at least an inch's worth of distance between the teen's hand.

"Will you stop? I have this!" Stiles hissed. Not at all irritated that Peter was touching him, the wolf knew, but more that he felt Peter didn’t trust or believe him.

Fine. If that was what he wanted, if he felt so sure, if he was assured that he knew more than Peter in this case, then Peter would let him do what he wanted. It wasn't like freezing spells were all that hard, right?

The werewolf's hands flew up in surrender, and he shook his head while walking toward the snacks they had packed for when they were peckish. He dropped down, crossed his legs out in front of him, and relaxed back against the tree while reaching for a sandwich.

"Uh...Peter," Stiles said softly from the other side of the clearing, but not looking at the wolf.

"No, no, you have it. I'll just be over here." He peeled some plastic wrap off the sandwich.

"Peter, I think I, wait--"

"Stiles, you did say you had it, correct? I'm eating."

"No, Peter, I really do--"

The werewolf finally looked up, or rolled his eyes up in the direction, pleased that Stiles may have gotten what he deserved for not listening to him. The boy was standing there, his hands in a complete block of ice, and he was shivering violently. Pleading eyes finally looked over in the wolf’s direction, wide and slightly terrified. Peter could only imagine he was wondering if his hands were going to fall off due to frostbite.

Peter smirked to himself, and tried to hide it with the sandwich. After he swallowed a bite, he shrugged a shoulder. "You said you had it. So figure out a way to get out of it."

Stiles glared at him, but it didn't really have much heat to it. Might have been a little chilling though.

***

"Air cleansing is fairly basic when you--"

There was a sudden loud crash of water, like a waterfall began pouring out of the sky. Peter wasn't sure if he even wanted to turn around and see what mess Stiles had made. But slowly, so slowly, he turned. Turned to find the teen completely soaked from head to toe, his arms held out to his sides, and his legs bent apart while he looked down at himself and the mess he'd caused, water running in small, intersecting rivers down his body.

Peter actively forced himself from smacking his hand against his forehead, but didn’t quite succeed in not rolling his eyes.

But then Stiles was shaking his head, water droplets flying off his hair, his nose, his lips, his long lashes. His hair began to stick in every direction, the trails of water coursing to the ground, his clothes clinging to that lithe little form. Droplets remained splattered across his cheeks, his lips, hanging from his ears like dew.

And then the little shit had the audacity to _grin_ at him, sheepishly, like this was just a minor little accident they could scrape away. And Peter felt every muscle in his back tense, his eyes raked once, twice, three times over the form in front of him, completely of their own will. His chest constricted.

"So, I guess I don't have that one down yet..." Stiles trailed off, once again looking down at his body, turning his hips to look down the back of his legs, craning his neck to see over his shoulder.

As Peter saw just the tips of Stiles' nipples peak under the cool, wet t-shirt, he forced himself to turn again and closed his eyes, took a measured breath for his sanity. "No. You really don't."

***

Stiles was standing, his arm stretched out, his fingers curled into a fist, his back bent forward, just slightly. His face was turning a bit red; sweat was forming at his temples. His eyes were fixed completely on the large rock in front of them.

He had managed to call several things to him so far, but they had all been small: small pebbles, small branches, small leaves. Stiles had claimed he had also called a few things in his home: pens, a bag of chips, the remote control, his laptop, his phone. But he hadn't been able to call forth anything that big so far.

Peter wanted to change that.

So here Stiles was, standing and reaching inside himself for some hidden persuasive power to make an inanimate, stubborn object move to him on its own free will.

The rock began shaking, suddenly, slowly, and Peter smirked, ready to see the progress. He turned to Stiles, nodded, gave him permission to finish the spell.

The werewolf had placed himself directly behind the rock, wanting to watch it move, but also figured it was safer than being close to Stiles in case the rock decided to rocket toward the teen instead of move at a slower pace.

He maybe forgot to warn Stiles that might happen.

And just as Peter opened his mouth to mention it, Stiles' entire body jerked forward. The teen's eyes widened dangerously, Peter could see a brief look of fear.

The next moment, Stiles was rushing toward him, like an invisible rope was pulling the boy from around the waist while he gave a surprised shout on the way.

After hitting the rock, tripping over the rock, Stiles flew into the air, limbs waving wildly, trying to grab onto anything and nothing, just to come down once more. Colliding right into Peter, the side of his head hitting the werewolf sharply in the sternum, his arms flying out and around Peter’s sides like a cartoon, even his legs flew out in a spitting image of Wiley Coyote, Stiles had managed to crash into a solid, unmovable form. The spell still held him.

His body kept pressing closer, and closer, and Peter reached down to try and shove the boy off, but it wasn't close to happening. Stiles' face turned bright red, jerking his hands up enough just to push at Peter's shoulders, just trying to force himself off, and he looked panicked, rushed murmurs of “-s-sorry, sorry, wow, oh, shit, Peter, sorry, I uh—“

Peter focused on trying to remove the form, rather than thinking of it being on him. Because Stiles was wiggling, and moving, and Peter could feel the muscles in his body, the quickened heartbeat, the various scents coming off the boy in waves. It was _distracting_.

No more calling objects for a while, he decided.

***

This particular morning, Stiles was working more on meditation, working on getting his energy in balance from practicing and failing so many different spells the past few days.

Certain spells needed to be done at particular times in the day, certain spells needed a particular kind of weather, and some were based on location, location, location. As the trainer, in this situation, Peter did his best to provide all he could, though he couldn't technically control the weather, and couldn't take credit for it when it was perfect. But this was not the day for spells, not only because Stiles’ energy was off, but because the weather didn’t fit energy control. Too much moisture in the air. Luckily, meditation was a thing that could be done at any time of day, in any kind of weather.

And while Stiles was a fast learner, a very hard worker, he still was only just barely cracking the tip of the magic iceberg. It would take years before he could master spells, but he was definitely making a good headway, despite all the setbacks. He needed to learn to manage his energy.

Stiles barely took any time learning to make things disappear, and could pull plenty out of thin air, as long as he kept everything balanced. He could create not only snow, not only rain, but fire now as well. He gained control of wind, of leaves. He’d managed to perfect lower level protection spells. And there were various other spells he had been practicing, working on, and most he had so far attempted, he'd managed to perfect.

But offensive spells seemed the hardest for him, not matter how long, or how many times, he attempted them. Any time he used magic with the intent to hurt, destroy, take down-he shook, he forced, even screamed on occasion. Except nothing ever seemed to work. It didn't even mess up, it just didn't happen.

He had, at one point, levitated a knife, aimed it successfully at Peter, and when he had tried to fire it, the thing had fallen uselessly to the ground. Peter had, of course, been less than impressed.

At least when the teen failed and spell went haywire it was entertaining to watch. Having nothing happen was...entirely, utterly boring.

Apparently even though Stiles was a little looser on his morals, even if he was so anxious to be deadly, to match a werewolf's power, he couldn't act on those vicious emotions without a reason. And it seemed Peter wasn't enough of a threat to Stiles to get him to pull that anger, that passion, from deep inside and conjure it into a spell.

That was mildly disappointing.

Still...

The werewolf circled the teen a moment, observing the meditative pose. He placed his hand on Stiles' chest after once around and pushed back, forcing him to sit straighter. Stiles cracked an eye open and attempted to glare, but didn't say anything.

"Stop slouching," Peter chastised, because the boy did have horrendous posture.

"I can't really balance my energies if you keep yelling at me for pointless th--"

"Correct posture can be the difference between success and failure in many spells. If you don't work on form, then how will you be able to practice accuracy?" The wolf growled back. He hated that Stiles didn't think his movements were necessary, thought he could just get by on his usual flailing around. He hated Stiles' arguing back with him even more than that though. Sharply, he jammed the tips of his fingers into Stiles' sternum. "Sit. Straight."

"Fine!" Stiles stressed, purposefully lifting himself higher, straightening his spine, and holding up his head.

It made such a difference. Automatically the air between them became that much clearer, that much lighter. Stiles breathed out softly, closed his eyes again, and almost leaned into Peter's hand. But he kept his back straightened, long, and poised.

The werewolf _knew_ that it was difficult for him. Stiles was constantly moving, constantly fidgeting, twitching. Sitting straight like this was most likely one of the hardest parts of training, but it was necessary. If Stiles fidgeted when casting, if he lost control of his body and began his sharp, flailing moments, it could lead to the death of others, ones Stiles might not intend to kill. It could lead to death of the caster as well, which Peter wouldn’t have.

For reassurance, maybe a bit of indulgence on his part, Peter crouched down and ran his other hand smoothly down Stiles' spine, a long sweeping stroke that calmed the boy’s muscles, made him relax, but didn't let him lose the posture. Peter gave another brush up his spine before placing his hand between Stiles' shoulder blades. They both held themselves still.  
This happened often, Peter correcting the boy’s forms, his stances.

It sometimes proved as a comfort between the both of them as well, these soft touches, it set them at ease. Peter had never really been inclined to touch others, at least not just small touches that were for no purpose. And no, it wasn't like these little moments between them had no purpose, he was, in fact, improving Stiles' form. With a perfect form, he would be able to hit a speck of dust off a beetle with a knife from a mile away.

But the facts were these: Stiles relaxed into Peter's touch, making him much more susceptible to magical influence, and Peter found a new kind of pleasure in relaxing him. They both silently reveled in the touches.

Peter would blame it on the fact that he was yet expecting to be named teacher of one of the most powerful warlocks. Yes, Peter would do what he needed to in order help Stiles learn, even if it meant crossing his own personal boundaries. What an absolute sacrifice on his part.

He didn’t look into the fact that Stiles seemed to get a soft smile with Peter’s calming strokes.

With Stiles calmed, and his posture perfect, Peter backed away from him, chose instead to resume the large circle in which he normally walked around Stiles' training area. Pacing, slowly, like a caged animal pretending to stalk prey, hands cupped primly behind his back.

This was their new normal, Stiles practicing and Peter watching, giving input when necessary.

When Stiles opened his eyes again, there was a light, ever so light, silver glow to them. A glow that made Peter smirk, because yes, the boy was gaining so much control, perfecting his form, and monitoring his energies.

"So, what do you want me to work on today since we can’t practice manifesting energy?" Stiles asked, stretching his arms up above his head before he clambered to his feet, all long limbs and sweeping movements. He took a moment to brush off his pants before looking up at Peter. "Ten bucks says I can totally make you levitate today."

"Aren't you beginning to run out of money?" Peter asked, maintaining his usual bored tone. It was best to remain unmoved by Stiles' spells. If Peter became too proud, or gave too much praise, Stiles would get far too excited and pass out. Though it had been a week since he last had, which was an improvement. "I feel badly taking it from you when you complain about having none so often."

"You know, most people that feel badly generally just don't take it."

"If you don't want me to take it, then don't make bets you know you’ll lose."

"I never said I was serious with them," the teen grumbled, now twisting back to one side, trying to crack his spine.

"Then don't make them."

After a quick pout, maybe a glare, Stiles mumbled to himself "yeah, obviously you feel so badly," before he squared his feet. Once his feet were in place, his entire body became solid and poised. He had been able to calm his flailing motions so well now that he had meditated. The teen stretched a hand out, fingers splayed, but generally pointing at Peter.

"Straighten your back," Peter told him, arms crossing over his chest.

It was just enough of an irritation that Stiles straightened his back but focused, closing his eyes, and beginning a hissing kind of chant with his tongue pressed against his teeth.

The next moment, Peter felt a pull upward, a reverse gravity that seemed to be fighting for him. He glanced up at the sky, but held himself close, tight, heavily. He needed to give some resistance, right?

Then again, if this ended like the last five times Stiles had tried to lift Peter, then in three, two, one--

Stiles' face dropped suddenly, his hand shook violently, and then without any other warning, the boy was thrown up into the air, his arms and legs flinging wildly around, a yelp escaping his mouth.

Peter sighed before rolling his eyes, ears barely even registering the shouts coming from above.

The werewolf at least moved into the proper spot and placed his arms out, waiting like each and every other time this had happened. Stiles dropped into them a few seconds later, the boy’s arms looping firmly around the wolf's neck almost painfully in panic, and Peter could laugh at the rate his heart was racing.

As Stiles calmed down, practically hyperventilating, he clung to Peter for his life, so, so close, eyes scanning his body to make sure he had all of his limbs. Then he turned his head, face nearly pressed against Peter's, pale, open-mouthed, lips moving with each and every quickened breath. He was beautiful.

"I hope you have that ten dollars on you," Peter mentioned after Stiles' was a bit calmer, but not quite ready to move to get out of the wolf’s arms.

The comment earned him a glare, which of course did make Stiles try to shove him away, rolling out of Peter's grip. "Fine. We're going double or nothing." He scrambled away from the wolf quickly, his cheeks turning just slightly pink, not just from effort.

The teen resumed position and Peter smirked, but shook his head slowly. The determination was something to marvel at though.

Once again, Stiles was up, his arm held out, and Peter stood patiently, silently daring him.

There was a newfound concentration etched into Stiles' features, and he looked harder, sharper than normal.

And then Peter was being pulled. He felt this invisible force above him grab hold, tighter than normal, and jerk up. This had a lot more power than before, and Peter felt his heart pick up, just a bit.

Stiles' face began to turn red around his cheeks, his forehead. Even his neck began to redden in blotches rising up from under his shirt. His arm shook, slightly, swaying from side to side, fingers curling in on themselves.

His pink tongue slipped out between his lips, a look of pure, unbreakable concentration.

And then, like being jolted up by an elevator, Peter lifted a few inches off the ground, and then stopped there.

Stiles stared at him, like he wasn't certain Peter was actually in the air, like he wasn't satisfied. He lifted his arm a bit higher, bringing the werewolf up with it a few more inches. The reverse gravity pulling Peter’s body, like it was trying to rip him in the middle.

The boy's eyes began to glow, a soft silvery color; the look on his face didn't change.

An alarm went off in Peter's mind, a sudden curiosity, maybe his self-preservation instinct. Stiles was taking this too seriously. Stiles wasn't letting up, which was also alerting, because while he was making great bounds and leaps in his magical studies, he wasn't quite strong enough yet to maintain something this powerful just yet.

Levitating objects was difficult, and Peter was large.

"Stiles," Peter warned, though he wasn't being lowered down.

The teen smirked. "You so are buying me dinner with that twenty you owe me. And it is totally going to be curly fries."

A moment later, Peter came crashing to the ground, and Stiles came tumbling down soon after, color drained from his face.

***

Taking care of an unconscious Stiles was becoming a new hobby for Peter.

The werewolf carried the teen over his shoulder into the apartment. He managed to kick off his own shoes before also taking off Stiles', and then walking the teen in to dump him on the couch.

Stiles groaned at being shuffled around, immediately wrapping his arms around a pillow and nuzzling into it. He always slept in the weirdest positions, grabbing absolutely everything he could to cuddle up next to it.

Peter had been the object Stiles had wanted to cuddle up to on several occasions, and after rolling his eyes for show, he debated just letting Stiles lay against him. The boy did seem to enjoy it, a soft smile always falling on his lips, nuzzling into Peter's chest or shoulder. Sometimes he nuzzled dangerously close to the werewolf's neck, a spot of vulnerability, of love, and Peter, the first time, had shoved him back a little too roughly, watched Stiles' body fall limp to the floor.

He didn't necessarily push him back any more. He didn't mind it if Stiles tried to scent him in his sleep.

There were no other wolves around, as far as he knew. Who would know?

Stiles rolled onto his stomach, pulled the pillow close to his face and lifted his butt into the air, trying to curl into himself, and stretch out at the same time.

Peter smirked at the position, nearly one of play in wolves, and shook his head.

The teen would need food and water once he woke up. And Peter should probably move him in to the bed before then.

The wolf moved to place a few of the magic books back, made a sandwich, and readied a glass of water. And just as he headed out to the living room to drag Stiles back to his room, there was a knock on the door.

Peter glanced up, eyes narrowing immediately.

He hadn't heard a sound. No footsteps, no car, no anything. He didn't smell anything from the other side of the door. There was no heartbeat.

He strode over, claws sliding out from his fingertips, more than ready to defend den and pack if necessary.

But as he opened the door, his eyes fell on a short woman, her long, silky black hair wrapped tightly in a bun, her manner calm. She was beautiful, but was aging. There was grey forming at her temples, dripped in long streaks through her black hair. Her eyes were a dark, dark brown, barely distinguishable from her pupils, and wrinkles had begun to form under her eyes.

"Mizuki," Peter addressed her, not having expected to arrival but unsurprised, though he didn't make a move to let her in. Instead, he blocked the door completely. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I know he's in there, Peter. You're not really going to be able to hide it from me," she told him in a quiet voice, a small smile just barely gracing the tips of her lips.

"I wasn't trying," the werewolf answered, though he visibly relax, pushing the door open just a bit more.

"The whole building reeks of magic. You need to be more careful," she chastised, but didn't seem irritated. Instead, she cast a soft look behind the wolf, in Stiles' direction, before she looked back up at Peter. He was at least a half foot taller than her.

Peter rolled his eyes, leaned against the door frame. "There are only humans in the building. I would be less open with it if there were others around."

"There are others," Mizuki corrected.

It made Peter tense, but whether it was because she was confirming his suspicions of other creatures, or because she even had the nerve to correct him, he couldn't tell. Maybe she had been noticing the shadowy figure dipping in and out of town as well? The presence had appeared several more times while Stiles was practicing in the woods, not that Peter had let on that it was around. "Which I am assuming is reason for the visit? You're not really one to bring over housewarming gifts."

"The hospital. I'm sure you've been too busy to watch the news lately, but there have been a few cases of missing infants. Just born. Apparently a few have gone missing around the school as well."

Always the school. What was it with supernatural creatures and schools? Peter rolled his eyes before crossing his arms over his chest. "And what exactly would you like me to do about it?"  
Mizuki stared at him a moment before taking in a breath. She had used up her favor already, so Peter didn't really owe her anything. She knew this, and she looked momentarily at a loss, completely downcast, and Peter blinked the guilty feeling away. This had nothing to do with appeasing or helping Mizuki, but, he knew Stiles was over there on the couch, and if the boy had heard what she was saying he'd be bouncing into the air, excited for another investigation and really, how could Peter say no?

"What do you suspect it is?" He asked her begrudgingly.

Mizuki smiled suddenly, and it was like she de-aged ten years. "Peter, now that's half the fun for you. You don't want me spoiling it."

Actually, yes, he rather would like her spoiling it. He remained dissuaded, eyebrows raised, blinking patiently for the answer.

"There are hundreds of creatures in my back room that eat babies, Peter," she answered, trying to make her case. "I can't research them all. I don't have the time. John will--"

Peter raised his hand to cut her off, conceding. "Fine. We'll research this little problem as well."

"I owe you, Peter," she said sweetly, and he just nodded in return. She would pay him back, he knew that.

She turned to leave, but before she made it a few steps, she looked back at him. "If he needs anything...or if he needs help, does a spell he can't undo, I'm only a call away."

"Noted," Peter answered.

Then she was gone, no scent, no sound, no heartbeat.

The werewolf waited until she was in the elevator before he closed the door and moved back to Stiles. He hoisted the teen up into his arms and carried him into the bedroom, setting him down gently on the bed.

Mizuki probably should have been the one to teach him originally, but Peter wasn't exactly one to trust, and he knew enough. Mizuki wasn't a friend, just someone with a common interest. It had been a complete coincidence that Stiles and Jaylen had become friends. Well, almost.

Peter pulled the comforter over Stiles' body slowly, before he looked down at the boy.

He felt...it felt...It was alarming, at the softness he felt around Stiles. It was growing steadier by the day, and became only more apparent when he was so determined to finish a spell, or so focused on learning. When he listened to Peter's every word, taking every command, and the words became apparent and visible throughout his training. Or even when he completely ignored Peter altogether, despite the fact it made the werewolf agitated. All the while, these two were spending time together, lost in magic hours, barely even noticing the seconds ticking by on the clock.

Stiles was comfort. Stiles was pack. Stiles was home. And this was all dangerous.

It almost made Peter feel badly, using the boy to assure a spot in Scott's pack. It almost made him feel badly that he wanted to assert himself to a position above Scott in Stiles' mind. It almost made him feel badly that he still wanted to become Alpha, take back his family’s land.

Almost.


	3. Look Into The Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a brief fight, Stiles storms out of Peter's apartment and seeks help from Thomas, who suggests alcohol as a solution. At the party, Stiles meets a girl. Peter pays him a surprise visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa okay, so yes, two chapters in two days. I was on vacation over the weekend, so I couldn't put anything up, but I was able to write! So I hope you enjoy these chapters. Thomas is super fun for me to write, so I hope you're not too annoyed by OCs. Thanks for reading everybody! The plot for this book is thickening!
> 
> Thanks CloveeD for letting me whine some more <333
> 
> Thank you all for the comments and kudos! You're all amazing! Also, if you know a fair amount about mythology, this chapter's foreshadowing is for you.

"I _can not_ believe you didn't wake me up," Stiles grumbled at the werewolf in front of him while rubbing at his sleepy eyes.

Okay, so he really needed to wake up. He was sure that even if Peter had attempted to wake him up when Mizuki stopped by that he probably wouldn't have, but it would have been nice for the man to at least try. Hearing that Jaylen's mother had arrived and he didn't even get to meet her? Kinda sucked. Mostly because he was curious, but also because he couldn’t actually be sure if Peter was keeping something from him or not.

Peter just shrugged in return. Just shrugged. Like sorry, it wasn't that big of a deal that this mysterious woman who owns a shit ton of supernatural books, and is an acquaintance of Peter, and gets Peter to do things, and is the mother of one of his best friends showed up and gave Peter another thing to investigate. You know, no biggie.

Stiles rolled his eyes and took a large gulp of water. Okay, maybe two or three gulps.

"Okay, fine, well, what did she say?" Stiles asked, moving from glass to sandwich.

"She said that babies have gone missing at the hospital and around it. She thinks something supernatural is behind it," Peter answered, nonchalantly flipping a page in a new book he was reading. Stiles couldn't see the title.

"And you don’t think that’s something we should jump on immediately?” Stiles asked incredulously before clapping his hands together, “well, what are we waiting for?" He made the move instantly to jump up from the couch, sticking out a leg to head toward the door. But upon actually standing, all the blood rushed from his head, leaving him dizzy and incredibly weak, vision blacking out at the corners and fading in. Stiles hated this feeling, realizing he was drained. The teen collapsed back down, falling gracelessly to the couch cushions, hand digging through his hair, fingertips pushing into his skull like that could keep the blood there. Somewhere, he registered his breathing was heavily labored.

At least it got Peter's attention. The werewolf looked up as soon as the teen had fallen back, closing the book and half lifting from his own chair like he was about to come over. "You're in hardly any condition to go gallivanting around the city looking for something that could, undoubtedly, kill you with one strike of teeth."

Stiles glared at the werewolf, because sure, he was weak, he was human, but that didn't mean he couldn't help, that he couldn't investigate. He twiddled a few strands of hair between his fingers, looking over at the werewolf with an attempt to wiggle his way around this. How could he convince Peter he was necessary for this?

"My magic's getting stronger, you've told me so," Stiles countered. He levitated a pen off the table for good measure, though his arm was shaking and the act only made his vision black out once more.

"And it also completely drains you. You can barely stand now. I don't have time or desire to fight off something and protect your limp, exhausted body."

The pen dropped loudly to the floor. Stiles stared at Peter silently, already feeling the need to sleep again after one simple levitation spell. Then again, he had completely drained his energy a few hours ago trying to levitate Peter. "I'll work on protection spells for the rest of the week; you won't have to protect me."

Peter gave him another look from his chair, not quite one of irritation, not one of anger, not even one of condescension, but of firmness. The werewolf was unrelenting. "No."

"But I've been--"

"Stiles, I said no. It's remaining that way." Peter was visibly holding back a growl, a snap, something.

The teen stood again, in a rush, ignoring how his head felt lighter, ignoring how his vision faded for a few seconds before correcting itself. He forced himself to stand as his blood pressure dropped significantly, heart pumping double to compensate. Hands clenched so tightly at his sides his knuckles turned white. "Peter, I'm not doing this again. I'm not arguing with someone every time there's a danger and people are afraid I'll get hurt. I'm learning magic so I won't have to have this argument. You're the last person I expected to try and keep me from going places. That's why I even came to you in the first place."

The werewolf didn't seem bothered, or worried. He simply opened his book once more, deliberately, and didn't actually look up at Stiles. Which was more irritating and hurtful than anything else he could have done or said at that moment. "I believe I was just a replacement for the pack that you don't have anymore.”

"You thought you were what?" Stiles asked, voice getting a little louder than he meant it to. Peter's shoulders visibly tensed. People didn’t raise their voice at him like that. "You really think you could be a replacement for them? You really think that this was anything less than a business transaction?"

And maybe it was a little childish, maybe he was over reacting, but Stiles shoved his things into his bag and stormed to the door. He really didn’t have time to deal with this again, and Peter really didn’t have any kind of say in this. If Stiles wanted to do something, he would do it, Peter or not.

The wolf didn't chase after him like last time. Instead, he just sat in his chair, not looking after him, not fighting to keep him to stay. Just flipped a page and continued reading.

Stiles bit the inside of his lip, hand on the doorknob, and he was aware that he probably wasn't coming back if he left now. No, if he left that meant they were done. Stiles could take care of his magic from here, right? Peter could continue to kill things for Mizuki, it would all work out. They wouldn’t have to deal with each other. Because why would he want Peter’s attention and companionship anyway? The wolf was always yelling at him for the stupidest shit.

Twisting the knob, not bothering another look at the wolf, Stiles left, slamming the door behind him.

It sure felt final.

But that didn’t make Stiles stop for one moment on his way out. All he focused on was getting out, getting away from Peter and his poison, getting home.

When he finally reached outside, he took a gasping breath of cool air. He focused on it coming in, going down and into his lungs, coming out. It relaxed him, calmed him. He let the air wash over his face, his sore body. It provided some comfort, and gave him enough time to spare a second of reluctance, of regret, that he finally looked over his shoulder and up to the top floor where Peter was. There was a window open, but no sign of the man. No werewolf leaning out the window in remorse, begging Stiles come back up.

Not that he actually expected that of Peter.

Stiles turned around, threw his things in his Jeep, and drove off.

***

So, he was a little angry. Whatever, he'd been mad at people before, he would be mad at them again. Peter was an asshole, everyone knew that, and for some reason Stiles had let himself forget it, briefly. And it was something that he couldn’t let himself do again.

Any flickering memories, ghost touches of Peter’s hands on his chest, back, arms, Stiles worked on shoving out of his mind, because somehow they kept coming back to him. Again, and again. The hours that they had spent in the woods, Stiles’ body pressed against the werewolf’s. He’d swallowed hard and closed his eyes to block them out. They were dumb thoughts anyway.

Stiles headed to the one person he knew would probably help him out the most. And when he had arrived at Thomas' apartment and crashed on his couch, Thomas had suggested one thing, and one thing only to help with his particular situation:

Alcohol.

Stiles had made the right choice going to him.

"You're not going to throw me some lecture about how you won't buy for minors?" Stiles asked, his face half smushed into the pillow underneath him.

Thomas grinned and jumped to sit on Stiles' back, because Stiles was taking up his entire couch, and ignored the grunts of "no get off me" coming from below. "Fine, I won't buy for minors. You are totally underage and it is beyond unacceptable for you to drink. It's _against the law_ , and as someone who takes the law _very seriously_ , I forbid it. However, I can't really do anything if I just leave completely full bottles around and you per chance get your hands on them, can I?"

To emphasize this point, Thomas placed a bottle of vodka on the table in front of the couch, shoving papers and folders and books aside. The older student quite clearly took homework very seriously as well.

Thomas' apartment was what Stiles had always imagined a college apartment to look like. He didn't have a lot of money, and the apartment was a crazy small loft, but it was comfortable. It wasn't like Peter's weird, obsessive cleanliness, total opposite in fact.  
There were clothes thrown everywhere. There was a couch, well, futon, but it was covered with pillows and about five different blankets. There were dishes in the sink, maybe a few days' worth, actually. The walls were grey, but covered with posters and pictures. There were glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Thomas' bed was just a mattress on the floor in the corner, large and unmade, with grey sheets and his laptop on the pillow. There was a Volcano vaporizer next to the couch, placed delicately on an end table, probably one of the only things that looked clean. 

Everything looked like it had been used for years, even before Thomas, clearly someone having lived there before. Oh, and the whole place smelled like incense and hookah and books, and whatever body wash Thomas used.

It was like what Stiles had always imagined his place with Scott would be like.

"Is there anything in the bowl instead?" Stiles asked, trying feebly to move with Thomas' heavy weight on him, only able to free a hand and motion it toward the vape.

"Nah, dude, I'm all out, unfortunately. Trying to stay relatively sober for finals." Thomas answered. The older student finally stood up, holding a hand out for Stiles to take.

"Right, finals," Stiles echoed, taking the other boy's hand and getting up from the couch.

"Sure you'll be okay? You've been crazy busy with the..." he mimed magic, or at least what Thomas expected magic to look like. Stiles snorted a laugh.

"Yeah, it's cool, man. I've got it."

"Well then," Thomas said, gesturing his head toward the door. "You up for a crazy night of drunken shenanigans or not?"

"Only if none of those shenanigans involve Peter," Stiles grumbled, more to himself than anything.

Thomas smiled at him, one that looked almost apologetic, and looped an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. "Promise. No skeevy werewolves, it's forbidden."

"I could kiss you," Stiles thanked, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Thomas winked at him and shrugged, "maybe if you get me drunk enough."

"Are you kidding? Jaylen would disembowel me. She would flay my skin. She would--"

"Probably eat you alive, I really have no doubt about that. S'great, isn't it?"

"Totally," Stiles grinned.

***

So alcohol it was.

An hour after they left Thomas' apartment, Stiles found himself past pleasantly tipsy, his arm wrapped around Thomas' shoulders, the other boy's hand somewhere around his waist, and they were holding shots up for each other to swallow down, a circle of people around them laughing and chanting.

He felt the shot burn all the way down, and flashed a lopsided grin after Thomas managed to laugh halfway through swallowing his, some of it dribbling from the side of his mouth. Stiles smirked at the other boy, gave him a halfhearted hug, and finally pushed them apart.

"You should not be able to hold your alcohol better than I can," Thomas shouted to him over the loud music, the chanting people. The older boy's eyes were glossing over slightly; his movements were more exaggerated and sharp, like he had no idea what to do with his long, thin limbs, or how to position his tall, slight body. Stiles totally understood that problem.

"I have unusually spectacular tolerance, excuse you," Stiles commented, cupping his hand around Thomas' shoulder. Maybe it was to support the other boy; maybe it was to support himself. Who knew?

The two laughed at each other over nothing, and then everything. They moved together, spurred on by the other's encouragement, warmth, their bodies pulling close and then pushing away. They were the center of attention, and both craved it, needed it, gave it to each other. They swallowed more liquid fire, joined each other in fuzzy, drunken, humorous, loss of inhibition. Thomas lifting his arms into the air after another shot, Stiles doing several different dances that he’d never do sober.

At some point through the night, between Stiles feeling like his head was in a fishbowl and not remembering anything, he received a text from Peter.

He looked down at the name sprawled across his phone, crinkled his nose at it, and didn't bother actually reading the message.

Instead, he looked at Thomas across the room, trying to smooth talk some guy into letting them use a mattress as a sled on the stairs. The older boy putting on his best "honest" face, his hand playfully touching the other guy's chest. The guy even seemed like he was actually being persuaded by Thomas. 

His friend flashed Stiles a quick, secretive grin before looking back at his persuadee. Mouthing something like, “no man, I’ve done this _tons of times_. I’ll even let you go first to prove that it’s totally safe.”

Stiles felt so caught up in watching Thomas apply his lawyering skills that he hardly noticed a girl slide up next to him.

"He your boyfriend?" She asked sweetly, making Stiles flail back in realization that she was suddenly _there_ and she was talking to _him_.

"Wha? Huh?" He asked rather eloquently (at least he thought so in his drunken state) and whipped his head around in several directions to check if someone else was there. "You talking to me?"

"Who else would I want to be talking to, silly?" She asked with a sweet giggle in her voice. She seemed much less drunk than he was

But she was pretty, actually beautiful. Long, wavy, pale blonde hair, bright, hazel eyes with long, natural, dark eyelashes, a softness to her pink cheeks and lips. She was curvy too, but thin, with long, long legs. Short though, definitely; couldn’t be more than a few inches over five feet.

Stiles shook his head and blinked several times in succession to clear the image of Erica away from his mind. This girl almost looked like her. But she looked far too sweet, too innocent, and was dressed far too modestly for Erica. Just jeans and a rich green v-neck t-shirt, but she had a scarf around her neck that almost looked like snakeskin. In fact, her bag and shoes matched. Stiles had to give props for matching accessories.

In an attempt to seem more sober than he was, Stiles laughed and waved a hand in the girl's face. He failed so badly at things. "Come on, like, no one wants to talk to me."

"I do," she replied, her tone still sickly sweet. Honestly, she looked like the sun was going to rise behind her at any moment, bathing him in pure, cleansing light. Her giggle fucking sounded like actual bells chiming. "I'm Lamia, what's your name?"

She stuck out her hand with beautiful, long, clear fingernails. A green and silver ring was on the ring finger of her right hand.

"Stiles," he smiled back, taking her hand, and after failing to actually shake it in a coordinated way, he ended up kissing it instead (because that was a good idea in his fuzzy head). God, her hands were so...smooth. "Oh, an’ totally _not_ my boyfriend. No way, not interested in him at all. He's practically engaged." He grinned at her, and then faltered, sobering a moment. "Why? What did he tell you?"

"Nothing," Lamia said with a smile. "Haven't talked to him. Just wanted to talk to you."

Wow, this girl was really hitting on him. Stiles glanced down at himself to see what he was wearing because apparently it made him look awesome.

Which was actually kind of ridiculous because he wasn't wearing anything special. He wasn't even wearing anything form-fitting. What the Hell?

So what could she want? Just to talk to him? Stiles looked at her for a long moment, wondering if he was in shock or awe. He didn't get hit on like this. Something was off, right?

He looked around the room quickly to see if there was anyone staring and laughing at them, but there wasn't. So then what was the joke?

"I'm really not all that good at parties, or small talk," she confessed, looking down into her glass which was filled with some kind of punch. Sitles' hadn't actually tried the punch.

"That's totally cool, small talk is kind of my specialty. Well, I guess not small talk, necessarily, but like, filling up silence with a whole lot of sound. Sometimes if you get me talking then I don't stop," he shrugged and flashed a grin at her.

She laughed into her arm, a delicate and graceful movement. An embodiment of sun. "Well, if that's the case, I think I can do that too. What are you studying here? I'm double majoring myself, two things completely unrelated to each other, actually. Literature, mythology in specific, and Herpetology."

"Herpetology?" Stiles asked, his eyebrows shooting up. "I'm gonna go ‘head and tell you right now that I have no clue what that is."

"Reptile zoology," she told him wish a bashfulness, her cheeks pinking. In a long, smooth motion she swept her long hair over one shoulder, her eyes down cast. "I usually don't like to tell people. A lot of people think it's weird."

"No way, man, snakes are awesome!" He grinned at her, trying to make her feel more comfortable. But there was thing nagging feeling down in his stomach. "I started off undecided at first, and I'm...thinking of changing majors, actually. So I'm kind of unsure again. But right now I am studying law enforcement."

"Oh wow, you want to be a police officer?"

"Yeah, kinda." His hand came up to rub the back of his head. There was something about this girl that made him feel on edge, like he was supposed to be keeping an eye out for something off. Like he felt around the werewolves, every nerve firing sharply, fight or flight instinct at the ready. Like he was in danger.

But there was something deeper too. Like he was...cheating.

"You know, I'm kind of impressed," she smiled up at him, a soft pink coming to her cheeks once more. "Normally everyone makes a comment on how weird my name is."

"M’name’s _Stiles_. ‘N’ that's not even my real name. _Countless_ people bring it up, _all the time_ , so I totally get it. ‘Try not to point it out when others have a name ’ve never heard before."

She gave another quiet giggle, moved a step closer, and took a sip of her drink. After scrunching up her nose in the most adorable way Stiles had ever seen (really, real people shouldn't look like that), she curved her hip out to the side. "Appreciated nevertheless."

"So, what brings ya out here?" He asked, leaning in to her space a bit more. But that could be because of the alcohol. He stopped when he got too close, feeling something hold him back. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Need to unwind a bit, I guess," she leaned back against the wall, her head tilting against it, but angled up perfectly, like she was acting in a movie rather than moving in real life.

"Why's that?" He leaned back too, but still leaned forward, maybe in case he had to run, one hand finding his pocket, the other lifting his plastic cup to his lips. Bleh, the punch was terrible.

"Mostly the double major. Plus I help out at the hospital nearby. And I participate in a lot of extracurriculars." She sighed and ran her fingers through the ends of her hair. A moving photograph, a memory caught in time, but not a real person. Stiles felt pulled in immediately again, any alarm that had gone off in his head was effectively silenced.

"The hospital? What do you do at the hospital?"

"Oh, I volunteer." Another brilliant smile. She seemed too good to be true. It was unnerving. No one could be this perfect. "I help out in the maternity ward a lot."

"The maternity ward?" Stiles asked, and in a fuzzy, hazy, drunken state, something in his mind clicked, and he seemed to remember. Babies. There was something about babies. The hospital. Something about the hospital and babies. And Peter. Peter. Stiles felt himself blink slowly at the girl through his realization, stomach tightening and remember because _Peter_. "Haven't there been a few problems there, lately? Huh?"

"Oh." The girl's face dropped suddenly, even her drink lowered. "So you've heard about all that?"

"Yeah, my friend was--" Friend? "Er-ah, this guy I know. He’s kinda curious. Filled me in on what's been happening."

"It's just horrible--" she started, then stopped, her eyes welling slightly, her cheeks coloring even more than the presence of lush pink.

Stiles' flailed, alarmed by the sudden onset of tears in her eyes. "Whoa--whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, no, there's no reason to cry, hey, I bet they'll find the babies! So many babies! It's probably just some worker gone psycho, okay?—ack-- Don't cry, please, don't cry I didn't mean-"

He set his hands on her shoulders, trying to pull her focus, make her look at him as she ducked her head in quiet shameful sadness.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, it's just," she sighed, fingers coming up to dab at the tips of her eyes. "I've been working closely with many of the mothers. I can't even imagine what they must be feeling, to wait for so long, devote so much time, get so excited, just to lose their child."

"They'll find them, okay? Someone will find them," Stiles promised with a determination and assurance that the girl smiled again, a soft, sorrowful giggle bubbling up in anxiousness.

"You're so sweet," she told him, her hand touching lightly to his chest. Then, like nothing had just happened between them at all, her lips curled at the tips. If Stiles didn't know any better, wasn't so drunk, he would have sworn, just between those perfectly glossed lips, in between those perfectly straight, white teeth, he caught a glisten of a fang. Then it was gone. The girl pulled a pen out of her snake-skin purse. She asked, almost shyly, "do you mind if I get your number?"

Maybe it was because it was the first time someone had so obviously hit on him at school. Maybe it was because he was drunk, and a little horny, and this girl was beautiful. Maybe it was because he felt a little sorry for her show, and maybe she intended it that way. But, Stiles took the pen, offered her one of his most charming smiles, and scribbled the number on the underside of her left forearm, pushed the guilty feeling away.

There was no reason for him to feel guilty for giving a girl his number. He did it to Jaylen when they met, and she hadn't even asked for it.

"Doesn't get as easily washed away on your arm," he said, holding the pen out for her to take again. "Call, text, whatever, any time."

"I will," she swore, holding the pen, and her left arm, close to her chest like he had just given her a gift. "I should probably get going though. I don't want to head home too much later."

"You walking alone?" He asked her, brow furrowing in worry.

"Not if you're going to walk me." She gave him another rewarding smile, a gift for a gift. It was smooth, flawless, completely contrived. And Stiles was helpless.

He placed a hand on her lower back and walked her toward the door while sending a quick text to Thomas that he was leaving: “Walking a girl home, dude.”

“Don’t get eaten, man,” Thomas sent back.

***

The air outside was crisp, warm, and clear. There were awakening moths, other flying insects just starting to buzz around under each street lamp. No cloud in the sky, and bright shining stars winking down at the couple as they walked, a half foot between them, not saying anything but listening to each other's shoes hit the pavement.

Suddenly, as if stricken with something, Lamia gasped, spread her arms out to her sides, wide, like she could hug the sky. "Oh, look into the air!" She said, breathily, breath-taken-from-her. "I just love the warmer weather! I'm so excited for it to get warm again. I get so cold so easily. Bugs are always a good sign of coming warm weather!"

Stiles couldn't hide the disgusted face he'd made. It had been inspired by the bug problem the previous month. "They don't always wait for it to get warmer," he mumbled to himself. But it was hard to keep thinking of such a horrible experience in the presence of something so gorgeous (wow that was one of the cheesiest things he'd ever thought). He watched Lamia slither back to him, smile widening.

They kept up light conversation, Lamia often drifting, swaying, curving to and fro like she was pulled, her body ebbing in and out, and she talked excitedly. He was smitten.

When they reached her apartment, he walked her to her door, kissed her softly on the cheek, and left.

***

In the morning, Stiles woke to loud, long, prominent knocks on the door of his dorm, slow and methodical, calculated.

One, two, three. Pause. One, two, three. Pause. One, two, three. 

Each one seemed to ricochet inside his skull, pulsing through the pain he already had in his brain. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to get rid of the sour, rancid, almost decaying taste in his mouth. His eyes blinked open one at a time.

A hangover. Just what he needed. What had even happened the previous night?

"Stop fucking knocking," his roommate groan-yelled from the other side of the room, the other boy’s head buried under a pillow.

Stiles sneered at him. At least he hoped it was a sneer.

Again, there was a knock. One, two, three.

"Alright, ‘right, 'm coming, hold your horses," Stiles grumbled, rubbing a fist over his eyes quickly, hoping by sheer will that his grogginess would leave with the action.

It didn't.

One, two, three.

After shuffling to the door, (only in boxers because what was the point of putting on a shirt?) Stiles put his hand on the handle and froze, his chest tightened, and maybe he felt a bit anxious all of a sudden. Who would knock like a metronome at his door at seven o'clock on the dot?

Stiles knew who, but he couldn't believe it. Peter never came to _him_ , not unless it was _planned_ , not unless there was _training_.

One, two, three.

Slowly, almost anxiously, in his goosebump-covered pale skin, standing bare and exposed, and strangely vulnerable, guilty, like a child caught coloring on a wall, Stiles opened the door.

Peter stood, a white v-neck, dark jeans, boots, perfectly oiled air, perfectly trimmed facially goatee, and so strikingly beautiful Stiles had to catch himself swallow before it was audible, the wolf’s hand was poised and ready to knock on the door at the level of Stiles' forehead. The werewolf then let it fall forward, tapping Stiles on the forehead like the older man knew of Stiles' headache immediately.

But he didn't say anything.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asked, too dumbstruck to cover himself, or really do anything other than stare at the man in front of him.

 _How did Peter even get in the building?_ There were guards, security!

"You have the most...endearingly naive hall mates," Peter answered Stiles' thoughts.

"Please tell me you didn't say who you were going to see? I'll be kicked out for inviting predators in," Stiles grumbled, rubbed at his eyes again. Maybe this was an alcohol induced dream sequence? Maybe he would wake up in a moment?

But then Peter was shoving his way into the dorm room, wrinkling his nose, but Sitles wasn't quite sure at what (The clothes on the floor? The smell of alcohol? Morning breath? His roommate? The size of the room? All of the above?). He turned on his heel swiftly to face Stiles, allowed his eyes to rake the boy up and down, making Stiles feel far more exposed than he'd imagined he would feel, and somehow exhilarated. The corner of Peter's lip peaked, in what, mockery? Stiles was skinny, not entirely muscular, and he liked himself that way.

So why did he feel so suddenly self-conscious, shifting from foot to foot, his hand coming to rush messily through his hair, while Peter gazed at him? Like Peter was appraising him?

"Interesting use of a word, predator," Peter muttered, his eyes tearing finally from the teen to look around the room a bit more. He moved to Stiles' bed, fingers curling tighter like he was resisting the urge to set it for him. "Are you going to breakfast like that? I did warn you last night.”

"Breakfast?" Stiles asked, again, stricken dumb by the suggestion, is brain moving too slowly from alcohol, hang over, sleep, whatever. What warning last night?--The text message he never looked at....

"God, yes, just get the fuck out," his roommate groaned again, lifting his head at last from under the pillow. And as Peter turned to look at the other boy, faced away from Stiles, eyebrows raised as if he didn't _know_ or _realize_ another boy was in the room. As his roommate looked up to meet Peter's eyes though, the other boy's mouth snapped shut, eyes widening.

"Do you really use that kind of language with your elders?" Peter asked the other student, voice dangerously low, a clipped coldness to it. But Stiles couldn’t really see what Peter’s face was doing, except his roommate looked ready to piss himself.

In answer, Stiles' roommate simply shook his head, mouth closed tightly. That was definitely fear.

"Good lad," Peter sneered, "just as I suspected you would be.”

Had they met before? Had Peter been in contact with his roommate? Was there something between them that Stiles was missing, or was his brain just not moving fast enough to keep up with the scene in front of him? This was weird.

In a way to defuse whatever it was that was going on between the werewolf and his roommate, trying to keep the situation from escalating, Sitles nodded suddenly, agreeing to Peter's invitation if only to stop, stop, stop this. Peter was observing his roommate like he had already _found breakfast_ , a sick, predatory kind of interest, amused with the scent of fear. His roommate was a thing to be devoured, not a person.

It was the first glimpse of _old Peter_ Stiles had really seen in a while.

"Yeah, right, food, okay, now," Stiles rushed, touching Peter’s arm briefly, trying to steal his attention before grabbing a clean shirt and jeans, so Peter didn't make some remark about his hygiene. Then he looked pointedly at the werewolf who'd managed to lazily draw his gaze back to Stiles, had watched him shuffled around his closet. Stiles glared at him. "Do you mind? Can you wait outside?"

"Ah, yes, your delicate, virgin senses," Peter recalled, rolling his eyes as if to say 'how could I forget?' The werewolf stalked to the door, hands clapped together tightly behind his back. "My _sincerest_ apologies."

"I really don't think you’re sorry at all," Stiles grumbled, not bothering if Peter could hear it or not. The werewolf shrugged before he closed the door behind him.

While Stiles’ roommate collapsed back down on the bed, turning from Stiles immediately to face the wall, Stiles dressed and played the entire scene again in his mind. What was that? What had happened?

It would be something Stiles would have to think back on later, because Peter wasn’t patient, and would certainly burst back in if Stiles wasn’t prompt. So, despite Stiles still being pissed about the previous day, despite his guilt-ridden state from the previous night, he rushed out the door to join the reaffirmed dangerous werewolf for breakfast.

Wonderful.


	4. Glittering Blackness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter isn't pleased with Stiles' activities when angry, but deals with them. He meets the the mysterious figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, so there is a bunch happening irl right now so I apologize if I am very sporadic for the time being. Thanks again for reading, and being so great.

Call it a hunch, but there was something unsettling about the way Stiles had left after finding out Peter hadn't woken him for Mizuki's visit. It wasn't the irritated, hurt, teenage smell. It was something else. There was a new tang to the scent that Peter knew he had recognized before, but hadn't been able to place his finger on it. It had happened when Peter had sent him away before, to heal, to rest, an action he did out of respect for Stiles’ health more than anything. But here the tang was again, and Peter was finally able to place it.

It had been the smell of rejection.

Stiles felt that Peter didn't want him around; he felt that the wolf was excluding him from certain things.

It was an interesting realization, because it wasn't true; not that Peter would actually admit it. In reality, the werewolf was trying to include the teen in what he did, everything he knew. Well, at least involving the cases. But on the flip side of that reality, Peter was aware that Stiles had been weakened considerably by the magic, and that had nothing to do with the boy being human and had everything to do with him trying to take a crash course in something that should take him years to learn.

Stiles was proving himself to be much stronger than Peter would have suspected, which was a feat.

Stiles was impressing him.

But that, of course, didn't mean he was going to back down while being wrongly accused of something. Stiles needed to know that he couldn't goat Peter into these little pissing contests, trying to make Peter admit that no, he enjoyed Stiles being around, and yes, he wanted the teen to accompany him on investigations. Peter wouldn't say it, and Stiles shouldn't have to ask for that kind of confirmation. If Peter didn't want him along, Stiles would know.

Still, the werewolf wasn't above repairing bonds when he knew they needed to be. A tether could break easily, and he didn't need to go mussing up his plans more than they already had been.

Then again, he also knew how it was near futile to try and keep Stiles in his plans. Stiles never calculated in the way that Peter wanted him to.

Alas, repairing it was. Peter told him they would have breakfast, and despite not actually getting a response back, not uncommon when Stiles was angry, Peter arrived at the boy's dorm for breakfast. Albeit, rather early.

What the wolf had not expected was the various smells that came along with waking Stiles after a night of being angry. Not the alcohol, not the hang over rancidness, not the unwashed body smell, and not the dirty clothes smell. Peter went to college; he was accustomed to all of these smells. Plus, well, he had been staying with the pack for the past few years none of the teens were really primed like roses in the morning. Except Lydia at least.

But it was the distinct smell of female that got his attention. It was the slight whiff of a perfume Peter didn't know, the baby powder soft smell of makeup and gentleness. There was a smell so particularly, stereotypically feminine that Peter wasn't sure what had hit him at first.

And the smell was coming from Stiles.

Stiles had been with a girl the previous night.

Not that he smelled arousal, but it was still...something. There was a giddiness masked by the smell of guilt, the heavy, thick, choking smell of guilt. Stiles had been with a girl at whatever party he had went to and he felt guilty about it.

Though Peter didn't fully understand the reason for Stiles' guilt, he also didn't understand the constricting hold his stomach took, or the reason that his wolf began to bristle.

Alright, well, he had some ideas, despite them being completely ludicrous and not something that Peter was willing to dwell on in the least.

Still, he tried to calm the irritation that rose, and managed to channel some of it on Stiles' pathetic roommate. Yes, he had met the boy before, and Stiles was curious about it but he wouldn't ask. Peter wouldn't tell anyway, a common theme arising in their relationship it seemed. Peter hadn't bothered showing a flash of his eyes, though he maybe slipped a glare of his fangs. The other boy had no part in their conversation, so he should have kept his mouth shut from the beginning.

And then Peter was leaving, being pushed out, because Stiles had some unending fear of Peter looking at his form. Which was understandable the wolf supposed, because Peter was looking him up and down repeatedly. More than once recently Peter had been noticing that Stiles was lovely. In fact, it was becoming increasingly obvious in his mind that his wolf seemed more contented, practically purringly pleased with the boy.

Those small touches weren't for nothing, he conceded to himself. They were completely intentional.

And the breakfast wasn't the worst thing.

Once Stiles was out of the room, the boy looked a bit more refreshed, though he begged Peter to let him go and wash his face and brush his teeth first. Something about "my mouth tastes like something died in it," which was a less-than-appealing image and still Peter wasn't appalled by him. It was revolutionary.

But the most important thing was that Stiles wasn't bristling anymore. The anger from the previous day had seemed to dissipate a bit, leaving them in a slightly-less-than-awkward, manageably comfortable silence for the drive to the diner. Stiles didn't talk much, and that was unusual, but Peter would chalk it up to the hang over or the fight the previous day.

When had Peter ever expected to try and make amends over something so silly? It wasn't in his nature, and yet here he was.

"I'm going to trust your activities from the previous night weren't all fun and games?" Peter inquired, side glancing the boy.

"Oh no," Stiles disagreed; head leaned into the cold window, rain falling softly outside behind him. He wasn't twitching, wasn't moving. It was odd.

Peter didn't like it.

"It was actually a total blast," Stiles added on. "It was the whole falling asleep and waking up to stupidly methodical hammering on my door that was the not fun part."

The werewolf didn't apologize, and he didn't really want to discuss what kind of a blast the boy had had. There was still the soft waft of femininity in the air, proof that Stiles was with someone female. Regardless of the situation, Peter wasn't inclined toward being agreeable to that fact.

A girl could completely ruin his plans, after all. You know...to hold a spot in the pack, to take a high ranking spot in Stiles' life. Stiles' mind.

Stiles' heart...

"I'm sure it was a gaggle of marvelous frivolities in which you will never forget your entire life," Peter drawled.

"You only use words like that when you're irritated," Stiles answered, though it was without his usual energy or spitfire. He barely even looked at Peter. In fact, he looked like he was about to fall asleep in the seat, temple to the window.

"You did storm out on me," Peter told him sharply.

Finally, Stiles gave him a look. It wasn't even a glare, or really anything of meaning. Just a look, filled with sleep, even relaxation. Maybe a bit of guilt. Good. He should feel guilty about his childish antics. "You don't think about me."

This made Peter pause, think about what he meant. Because there was no way he was admitting: no actually, I do think about you quite a lot, Stiles. He thought about Stiles in a particular way, and that particular way was not what Stiles necessarily meant, at least Peter was going to assume not. Peter was a part of a business transaction. He needed to watch his words. "Why do you think I don't want you to go barging on after completely draining your energy, Stiles? It's evidence enough that I'm considering you in my plans."

A soft but frustrated sigh came from the passenger's seat. The boy closed his eyes like he was trying to hold himself back again. It wasn't like he could storm out of a car moving 70 mph. " _I know_ ," Stiles stressed before taking another deep sigh. "That's not--I mean you don't _think_ about me."

Like backtracking, Stiles' eyes shot open once more, his first burst of energy since the dorm room. He raised his hands in surrender. Or maybe confusion? As a distraction? "I mean you don't really think about me like, you don't consider the small things. Yeah, you're watching out for my health or whatever, but you're not like- y’know, that whole shit with Mizuki? Come on, you know I've wanted to meet her."

Peter glanced at Stiles again. He seemed frustrated with himself, blustered, like he said something wrong. What did he let slip that Peter missed? Peter's brow furrowed. "And what if I told you that keeping you from meeting her _is_ protecting your health?"

"What do you mean?" Stiles asked, sitting up in his seat.

"Stiles, darling," Peter answered while pulling into a parking spot at the diner. "How much has Jaylen told you about her mother?"

~~~

Stiles hadn't come back to his apartment with him after breakfast. He kept mumbling something about papers, something about homework, something as an excuse to show that, no, he wasn't quite ready to be finished with the petty fight. And telling him about Mizuki really hadn't helped. Stiles had sat there, shaking his head, the smell of disappointment coming off of him, but he had simply muttered "I'm so not surprised you two get along now. No wonder you do her favors."

Maybe Peter shouldn't have told him.

The boy had slammed the door to the car closed after, and had stormed into the diner. Breakfast had been quiet at times, but at least they could talk about magic. Things like how much Stiles had to work on, what he had already succeeded at, what Peter could continue helping him with.

The wolf had clarified that yes, Mizuki would be a good source to go to. She knew magic, she would be able to help, but if Stiles took her up, it might not end the way he wanted it to. And that was coming from Peter.

Overall, it wasn't the breakfast Peter had been intending, one to repair bonds, and now that he was back and alone in his apartment, the only thing he had to do was review it over and over again in his mind. Not that he was ever one to linger, but this particular incidence he couldn't keep out. He couldn't ignore the guilty smell, the disappointment, the muted behavior of the boy. In his sleepy, irritated, hung-over state, Stiles was someone that Peter hardly knew. Or wanted to acknowledge.

Peter couldn't get past the scent of femininity either, the sickly sweetness that eventually seemed to engulf the boy to the point that Peter could hardly notice anything else.

And call him paranoid, but Stiles got a text halfway through the breakfast, that he looked at with perplexity, and then guilt, eyes flashing nervously at Peter and giving everything away. He rushed to duck it under the table, but responded to whoever it was anyway. He smiled at it, fondly, but not in the way he would for someone from Beacon Hills. This was _new_. Pheromones rose. A heightened heartbeat. Quick touches to the face in distractedness.

Slamming his book shut in frustration, sitting in his chair at home, because he couldn't even read one sentence to the end without thinking back on that scene, Peter stood and went to grab his coat. It was the apartment; it was strong scent of Stiles emanating from his couch, his kitchen, his bed. He needed to get out to clear his head. He needed a place that didn't smell so thickly of the teen.

So he made his way to the bookstore, all the way in the back room where it only smelled like dusty pages, worn leather, and faint coffee.

Peter proceeded to spend the next hour pulling out books on every creature he knew that fed on babies, infants, and toddlers. He pulled book after book of the shelf, throwing them all into a pile that he would hopefully devour later. He'd already narrowed some of the creatures down, ones that couldn't shape shift at least. It would be difficult to sneak all of these places as a fully formed supernatural creature at least, one needed to be able to blend in.

After piling the books up, he began to go through them, narrowing the search even more.

Toward dusk, at least he assumed, he had a stack left of just five different creatures. It was simple enough. He could read them all in his apartment that night and get started on the search the next morning. 

Gathering them into his arms, he walked out of the back room, out of the bookstore without a word to Jaylen, who didn't seem offended in the least, or even look up at him, and right into his car. Jaylen knew he would bring the books back; he’d taken plenty from the bookstore without paying before, and always brought them back in prime condition.

But when he actually reached his car, Peter saw a note on the windshield. Despite the tightening in his stomach at the fact that someone _touched something that belonged to him without his permission_ , he didn't know of many that would leave a note for him.

He put the books inside first, securing them on the passenger's seat before moving to grab the note. A piece of parchment nonetheless.

So it wasn’t Stiles then? Stiles would have left a scribbled, half ripped piece of college-ruled notebook paper. Not actual parchment.

Slowly, the wolf lifted it to his nose, did his best to nonchalantly sniff the piece of paper. But it only smelled of bitterness, a hot spice without an identifying smell. Bitter heat, and maybe a small bit of patchouli. But no human scent could be found.

His wolf bristled, alarmed. Slowly, he ran his fingertips over the ink, expecting some kind of spell or trick, but there was nothing.

Just a simple note then?

Finally, he read the words, in quill ink, scratched shakily on the surface: “We have many things to discuss.”

Nose in the air, Peter sniffed once in casual indifference, both hands gripping the parchment tightly--then he ripped it in half. And then again, and then again, and then again, just in case someone was watching.

Puerile intimidation tactics didn't exactly work on him, and vague statements were his own bread and butter. The fact that someone, or something, was trying to use it on him was absolutely ridiculous.

After throwing the scrap pieces of parchment in the trash, because he wasn't a slob and littering was littering, he went back to his car and slipped inside, not bothered in the slightest that something wanted to speak with him so much they’d left the note.

There was something in the air. A sharpness, an electricity that made the hair stand on the back of his neck, not out of fear but out of power. Peter was certainly being watched, but that wasn't his concern either. The concern was that whatever was watching him was probably watching Stiles too, and he needed to appear unperturbed.

That black figure kept appearing lately. The malevolent presence that stirred the air without even moving. Peter didn’t doubt that was exactly who’d left him his note.

It did not matter either way.

***

On his way home, Peter seemed to run into several obstacles, making him travel several new ways. First there was a massive traffic jam, then there was an accident blocking his exit, then there was a detour he swore hadn't been there before. Finally, there was a protest blocking the road, making him head in an entirely new direction home.

About halfway through this drive, however, he realized that it was a set up. Something had designed each and every turn that he had to make, sending him in a completely different route. An intentional route.

He drove slowly, keeping his eye out for whatever wanted to speak with him so badly, eyes narrowed, muscles tensed.

It wasn't Mizuki, this wasn't her style. It wasn't family. It wasn't just some common supernatural creature, it had power. This thing had a plan, and it had been following him long enough to know his routines, figure out where he was going, which was alarming. Just how much about him did it know?

Traveling down a long, winding road, devoid of traffic and surrounded by woods, he finally got his first sign. There was a dirt path leading off the road, and several pieces of parchment paper littered the way. The same kind of parchment that had been on his car.

Cautiously, but feigning casualty, the wolf pulled off to the side of the road, not daring to cross the papers in case they had wards, or some other spell. And once he was parked, he got out, walked toward the pieces of paper on the ground.

There was no immediate smell of magic, but as he got closer, there was an electricity in the air that seemed to raise the hair on his arms. Definitely smart he didn't decide to just drive over them.

“I don't exactly have the ability to take these down,” Peter said to no one in particular, speaking into the air. "It would be a waste of all your trouble to get me here if I can't even come in to see you. You obviously would like to speak with me so eagerly." But then why the protection?

A moment later, the electricity in the air seemed to evaporate to nothing. Peter sniffed nonchalantly, stepped right over the paper wards on the ground, and made his way down the dirt path. It was like stepping into a cave. Even with the sun shining high in the sky, there was an enveloping darkness that took over. Invisible power and intimidation.

It was nothing compared to things Peter had gotten into before. This was all intimidation.

He strolled down the path like a Sunday walk through a park, glancing at trees, observing the lack of wildlife, arms wrapped behind his back.

There was no figure, but the presence was overwhelmingly similar. In fact, it was the exact same. But instead of simply _being_ , and in the general vicinity, it was completely around him. Trying to get inside him with every breath.

As he walked, it got thicker, stronger, until he could probably cut it with a knife.

And then he saw the hut.

Hut was exactly the term. It was a shack. A thrown together little abode made of sticks and tree branches, leaves, and all at the entrance of a cave. Peculiar, certainly so. But not unheard of when it came to the world of the supernatural.

Beyond curious, Peter cocked his head to the side, eyed the house with narrowed eyes for a moment before he walked forward, swept the curtain of a doorway aside, and took his first step inside.

As soon as the curtain shut behind him, he became engulfed in real darkness. But with something just on the edge of it, some kind of trickling light coming from deep inside the cave in small, spider web threads, flickering over the walls, his eyes, his clothes. Sunlight or fire through holes in the design, Peter assumed. A barely audible hum of an incantation pulling him in deeper.

Peter stepped confidently into the glittering blackness, not bothered by spell or fear of the dark. And as he took each step, words of the incantation, the subtle changes and drops in pitch, a soft musical ping keeping tempo, all became clearer.

He went down a long hallway, not bothering to walk with a hand on the wall as he could see clearly with werewolf senses firing on all cylinders.

There was nothing in the hallway. Not furniture, not books, not footprints. Just stone and darkness. And the small flickers of light coming from down the hall, where at last he came to a door. 

Just a shabbily patched wooden door, broken at the bottom, small cracks scattered throughout, revealing light behind, and seeping out a scent that Peter wrinkled his nose at, curled his lip. Something clearly lived here, clearly never really left. It was truly a den home.

As soon as the werewolf placed his hand on the rusted door knob, the incantation behind the door ended abruptly. He smirked.

"Don't become shy now," Peter hummed to himself, pushing open the door and stepping into the large mouth of the cave.

The smell hit him full force, and if he were a weaker man, he might have covered his nose. But why would he offend his host like that? Instead, he scanned the room. There was a full fire, rather large, in the middle of the room, its smoke exiting out a hole in the top of the cave. There was furniture, like it was homemade in a hurricane, haphazardly strewn around the room. A stone table, dishes here and there. What looked like a straw bed was in the corner.

And in front of the fire, hunched over, tucked in on itself, was a cloaked figure, hood thrown over its head.

Peter could see the curve of a spine, almost every individual disc sticking out, the head ducked, and its arms shaking. But there was no human scent coming from it. Whatever it was could not _be_ human. The malevolence was there, however, this sleeping belligerence that might erupt, just like the fire, at any moment.

A hand, shaking skin stretched over bone, reached up, curled a finger to call him closer.

The werewolf felt his throat tighten. But it wasn't fear, couldn't be fear...was it? How childish of him. It must have been disgust.

"Come closer, Wolf," the creature said in a masculine, raspy voice. Whatever it was, it sounded old too. Far beyond living years.

Barely moving from his spot, his feet reluctant and stuck, Peter shifted, shook his head. "You've gotten me this far, miraculously have caught my attention. But I don't take orders."

"Liar," the thing chuckled, at least Peter assumed that's what it was. It was a wheezing sort of sound, as if a bone was caught somewhere low in its throat. "Not that it's much of a surprise coming from you."

Now that, that finally jerked Peter from his spot, no lingering possible fear, just irritation. He strode forward, long, powerful strides until he curved around the figure and came to sit cross-legged in front of it, the fire behind him. "Now what exactly do you believe is so exquisite about yourself that I don't kill you right on the spot?"

"I have lived for many, many years," the thing said confidently, lifting its head with effort, as if it was too heavy to hold up. The hood rose, revealing its face, a wide, blue-lipped mouth with sharpened teeth, skin sunken in around the cheeks, a concave nose. But most distinctly, and something Peter found bothersome immediately, was the large, bubbled scars where the things eyes should be. Instead, there was nothingness, just skin. "My life does not end here, Wolf, and not by you. I have seen it."

"That surprises me," Peter answered, catty. He was past the point of pleasantries. "It doesn't seem like you see much of anything."

"You know I am telling the truth," the creature said sharply. "That's two lies in your short time here, Peter Hale. How many more would you like to tell when you know I can see right through you?" Again, it laughed, its shoulders heaving heavily, lungs pumping out wheezing breaths in stuttering bursts, the things stomach caving in and out.

"You are an ancient thing that should have been destroyed with the modern world," Peter answered, fingers curling over his knees. "What use have I for a seer?"

The creature clicked its tongue against its teeth. "No need for rash assumptions, Wolf. I possess a great deal of power. I can give you many things."

"As I see you have given yourself many things," the werewolf told him, gesturing widely to the cave. It was a thing of decay. Just like the seer living in it.

"It is not what _I_ need that is of interest to me," it pledged, a long, spindly, hand covered its chest. "As you have made clear, I do not belong in this world."

"Then what did you need to discuss, 'O Ancient One?'" It was mocking, and he was certain it was irritating the seer, not that he cared.

"You know the rules very well, and know I cannot simply answer. You need to ask a question, three questions. What do you _want_ , Peter Hale?"

"At the moment, I would like the putrid smell to go away. Maybe a bucket of disinfectant." Was putting his nose in the air a dangerous move? Maybe.

"So is the life of one disconnected from society."

" _I'm_ disconnected from society," Peter stated before glancing around again, lip curling. "This is hardly even living."

"My patience is waning, Wolf."

With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, Peter tried to think of three unimportant questions, anything to get him out of here faster. The seer was not going to get pleasure out of the visit, not talk about what it wanted to. And yet, one question still lingered, bubbling and burning in his stomach, in the back of his mind that he’d only wished years ago that he’d found a seer for. One he would certainly love to know the answer to, and yet...if Stiles knew. Oh, how he would be so disappointed. But why did Stiles matter at the moment? He decided on "Will I find out what is eating the children today?"

"The answer is close by, nearly upon you, if you do not already know it, and you do. You'll stumble upon it, or it will slither to you. But you will certainly fight it fang to fang." The seer replied, sounding bored with the question. Definitely not what he wanted to discuss.

But the creature had already given away the answer of his question. Peter kept the words in mind, applied them to his narrowed search. There was only one creature that slithered and ate babies. Peter bit at the inside of his cheek a moment, thinking. "Where are my nephew and niece?"

Again, the creature clicked its tongue against its pointed teeth. The sound echoed harshly in the cave. "Not part of your timeline, boy.”

"Of course," Peter answered, rolling his eyes once more. "I suppose I should just ask you the normal questions, then. 'Will I be happy?' 'Will I fulfill my life's dream?' ‘Will I find love?’" He scoffed.

"Are those your questions?" The seer inquired, voice dropping dangerously.

"Hardly. I could care less for any of the aforementioned."

"Your third lie today."

Peter felt his claws slip out unintentionally, digging slightly into his jeans, his knees. "Will I encounter anyone else from my family?"

"Family is a far away term, but it isn't gone, it isn't dead. You'll find family in unexpected places. You'll have your family, but it won’t be yours.”

Unexpected places? He had already found family in unexpected places. One of which he killed in a psychotic, rage-driven, revenge state. Peter lifted his shoulder, his spine tensed. Unexpected places, and far off but not gone. He'll have his family. God, hopefully the creature didn't mean the pack. As much as Derek wanted to push the 'pack is family' mentality, it wasn't quite the same. Family pack was different than pack family. And Scott's pack family could not beat his old family pack.

The seer leaned forward; hissed from between his teeth, spit dribbling down his lips. "Truly, Wolf, ask what you really want. There is no one here to know."

What did the seer think he wanted? Peter narrowed his eyes, observed. There was an excitement coiled inside the creature, low, but there, pushing forward. He wanted Peter to ask something specific. And from the air, the tone, Peter knew what it was. And yes, he wanted it; it was that low craving bubbling in him as well. It was what he didn't want Stiles to know he still thought of, but at the same time, was well aware that it was a past craving. Something he would most certainly not be disappointed with, but it wasn't really what he wanted. Not what he truly wanted. Not anymore.

The seer's information was out of date, which meant Peter had the leg up on the situation.

A smirk pulled at his lips, he drew himself in closer to the crippled creature. "Will I ever be Alpha again?" The word even tingled on his tongue, the question giving spark to the desire from so long ago.

Finally, the creature heaved another wheezing laugh, a lightened, yet foreboding sound. "My boy, you will find a way. Along the thousands of time lines, along the possible futures you could have, you will always find a way. And with my help, I will assure it."

"You'd help me become Alpha again?" Peter tried to keep the hunger out of his voice.

"You've run out of your questions," the seer grinned. Suddenly, it was lashing out, gripping Peter's wrist with an unnatural amount of strength for something so old. It was even able to hold the werewolf in place. It pressed hard on the ligaments, forced his fingers open. "A drop of blood as payment for the words?"

"Getting a little intimate, aren't you?" The werewolf smirked, but pricked his finger on a fang anyway, pushing on it until the blood rounded into an almost sphere.

As Peter moved his arm, the seer keeping tight hold on it, the creature also stuck out its tongue. Peter wiped the tip of his finger, his blood, on its tongue. Lips closed around the figure, sucked it clean of blood for a moment.

It let him go.

***

Curious. The entire situation was curious.

Nothing had happened in the cave after Peter made his blood payment. It was like the seer had shut down completely once sated with blood.

The werewolf left, intrigued, and maybe slightly alarmed. The creature wasn't as powerful as it believed it was, not being able to narrow down to the exact path of the future, but only seeing scatters of many. It knew Peter, knew he wanted to be Alpha in some low, twisted, lingering ghost of a way.

But Peter wanted something else far more now, but he wasn't going to get it. He was aware of that. It wasn’t worth dwelling on it. But the seer hadn’t connected to it, and that was a good thing.

Just because he wanted to think to himself a bit more, Peter decided not to go back to his apartment right away. Instead, on a whim, he drove to Stiles' usual practicing ground. 

On the way, Mizuki called, saying two more infants had disappeared from the maternity ward. The hospital wasn't sure how they could keep it a secret much longer.

"I know what we're dealing with now," Peter answered her, pulling out the last book in his stack. "Just have to find her."

Mizuki said something, but he stopped paying attention as he pulled up to the familiar spot. Stiles' Jeep was in its normal location, but something felt off. Without even saying goodbye, he hung up the phone, parked, and got out.

Immediately, he smelled the same female smell as he had on Stiles before. Peter felt every muscle in his body tense, knowing that it was possible Stiles had brought someone with him to watch his magic, a girl with him to watch his magic. The boy was being idiotic. Why would he bring someone he didn't know to perform magic? That was the fastest way to get caught.  
Holding in a growl, Peter stalked slowly toward their clearing. There was something else, some other scent in the air, connected to the female one, but concealed. It reminded him of something, though he wasn't sure what. It seemed to fit in well among the smell of earth, dirt, air. It was a basic animalistic scent, though he couldn't place it.

As Peter approached, he saw Stiles, standing in the clearing, a large grin spread across his lips, laughing with a girl as he levitated a rock. His pupils were blown far larger than normal, and he was practically doused in the smell of arousal, excitement, desire, happiness. And she was standing next to him, body curled toward him, smiling brightly up at the rock, her hands clasped in wonder in front of her chest.

She was beautiful.

The werewolf felt a sharp pierce to his palms, looked down and realized his claws had spiked through his own skin, blood dripped slowly down to the ground. Peter stared down at his hand in curiosity a moment before looking back up at the couple. This was really not what he wanted to deal with today.

The girl smiled, and for just a moment, Peter realized she had fangs, her eyes flickering to Stiles' long, craning neck. A neck Peter had found himself looking are more than once himself.

It all suddenly clicked into place. The answer hit him hard in the chest, made him regret letting Stiles leave so angry, made him irritated he hadn't been able to catch it sooner.

Stiles had been seduced by a lamia.


	5. Time Stops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has been seduced by the lamia. Peter's not happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this chapter gets a little heavy. Also, life is still pretty crazy, but I promise I am working on this.

Stiles was in love.

It was the only way to explain it. 

Stiles was completely and totally head over heels for the girl standing next to him. He wanted to show her everything; he wanted to give her everything. And what better way to impress someone than to show them actual, literal _magic_.   
It was how he found himself in the middle of the woods, performing different tricks for her, at least.

Lamia was ethereal. Lamia was pure, faultless, perfect. Lamia was absolute. She smelled sweet like flowers and grass. She _radiated_ , the human embodiment of a sun. Her voice, her laugh, she sounded like bells, she sounded like wind. She was intelligent, she was humorous, she was sweet and caring. No one could be better.

Stiles wanted to devote his life to her. Hell, he wanted to bow down and kiss her feet.

He'd never been the kind of person to wax poetic; he absolutely hated it when Scott had been so head over heels for…that one girl (because who could think of anyone else when _Lamia_ was around?) when they had first started dating. All he could do was humor his friend and say in the back of his mind “so never going to be me.”

But now, here, with this beaming girl, he understood. He seemed to understand everything that love had to offer. He felt like he could take on the world as long as she was by his side. He could become powerful, he could become the greatest wizard to ever live, and it was all because of her. Why did he need anything else, so long as he had her?

Glancing to the side, he caught her eye, those bright hazel eyes that seemed to encourage him wordlessly. He grinned back at her, heart racing, pure elation running through his blood.

"Watch," he said breathlessly, lifting the rock even higher into the air, spinning it in circles.

"Stiles, you're amazing!" She gasped, a hand landing on his bicep, and the touch caused his blood to turn to fire. He felt the warmth course through him.

"This is nothing yet," Stiles grinned. He dropped the rock, stretched his arms to his sides, and summoned some strong power from deep within him. His hands curled in, and as he pulled his arms like he was pulling at a weight machine, felt his muscles flex with such power- two trees on either side of him arched, bowed to him, bowed to Lamia in her perfectly, marvelous, amazing state. She deserved to have things bow to her.

The girl breathed out in awe, her eyes widening, slowly turning to walk between Stiles' hand and the tree as if checking for invisible tethers. She cupped a hand over his fist, ran her fingers along his fingers, curled them, folded them back up. She giggled softly as she went, glancing occasionally at the tree behind her.

Her hands felt so soft against his, and those fingernails long, white tipped, crisp, perfect. Everything about her was sublime. Stiles found himself grinning needlessly.

As he released the trees (and ignored how his vision blacked out briefly because Lamia was _there_ and that meant there was no time for passing out), the girl was suddenly gripping his hand between hers, and tenderly kissing each of his knuckles with her plump, soft, carefully glossed lips.

Lamia glanced up at him, her eyes wide and expecting, the knuckle of his forefinger still pressed between wet lips. Stiles felt something stir deep within him, and felt himself move closer to her, though he wasn't sure if he was actually in control of it. In fact, he wasn't sure of anything anymore. He knew he was him, and he knew he was at school to do something, or whatever, but nothing seemed important anymore. At least, not since Lamia. He didn't care to remember family's names, friend's names. The only one who would ever be there for him was her.

Just as Stiles was leaning in, ready to fall into the abyss of light that was Lamia, ready to kiss her perfectly waiting, perfectly anticipating, perfectly succulent lips, he heard a low growl from across the clearing.

For a reason he wasn't quite sure of, a coldness ran through his blood. His heart stopped and started several times. It wasn't fear though, he wasn't afraid. It was more like a ghost was trying to contact him, a shiver ran through his spine. Something that he thought was dead was coming back to life and communicating with him. Something was angry with him, and it was his fault. He felt _guilty_.

"Stiles," Lamia whispered, her voice tinged with fear. And he had a need to protect her.

Slowly, the teen turned around; faced whatever was the source of the noise. A handsome man (no, not handsome, no one had beauty but Lamia) was standing there, arms crossed tightly over his chest. And it made his heart ache. Why did his heart ache? What was going on?

"Who ar--" He started to say, but blinked, shook his head. There was something about the man in front of him. He needed to remember. There was something...this man was...

A hand landed on his forearm, and the coldness drained from him again, replaced by an incandescent euphoria. His blood became light. "Stiles, we need to leave," Lamia whispered into his ear.

"If I knew you were seduced this easily, I would have pulled out all the stops _months_ ago," the man across the clearing said, a dramatic roll of his eyes accompanying his drawled voice. It made Stiles want to laugh, but he didn’t. It made Stiles want to run over, but he didn’t.

"Seduced?" the teen asked, filling with confusion from being pulled in so many directions. His vision began to fade on the sides again. "You can't seduce her. She’s--"

"It's endearing that you think _she's_ who I'm talking about, darling boy," the man answered, a smirk pulling onto his lips.

For some reason, a thrill went through him. Shivered from his chest and shot down all the way to his toes, his lungs felt like they were swelling, his heart about to burst. Was this man talking about him? This man wanted to seduce him? But wait...what did it all mean? Why would Stiles care to be seduced by anyone but…

"He's not yours," Lamia said behind Stiles, her voice sharper than it had been before. It wasn't so soft.

"Quite the contrary," the man answered, stepping forward, his arms tensing over his chest. He held some hidden power that Stiles couldn't quite place. He seemed _dangerous_ , his eyes reflecting like light bouncing off broken glass, like his words could cut. He was...he was..."This boy’s mine until I say otherwise. And I'm not quite finished with him."

His? Another thrill shot through Stiles, despite feeling like property. He wasn’t property. At least not unless he was Lamia’s, right? Wait…

"You've staked no claim," Lamia said, her voice coming out more like a hiss than anything. Something was wrong. Stiles' head began to ache. Where was his perfect woman? This wasn't her voice.

When he turned to look at her, her hand still tightly on his arm, her pupils had changed, transformed into slits, like a cat. Stiles suddenly found it difficult to swallow. "Wait, Lamia," he said softly. Claim?

"My scent is all over him, I don't need to stake a claim. He was mine from the beginning," the dangerous man answered, now dangerously close to the both of them.

Lamia sharply pulled Stiles back, blocking him with her body, despite her being so much short than him. "Unfortunately for you, Wolf, my nose doesn't quite work like that. You'll need to try harder."

Wolf? Why did she call him wolf? Why did she suddenly feel so cold? Why was Lamia behaving like this? She began to dim.

Stiles gripped onto the sides of his head as it instantly began pounding, aching, a sharp pain behind his eyes like he'd had an icepick shoved above them. His chest hurt. He ached all over. What was going on?

"You have one of two choices," the man answered, no lift in his voice. If he was fighting for Stiles, he didn't seem to be trying very hard. In fact, he was casually looking down at his nails like they were far more interesting than whatever was happening here. "I take him with me as you willingly giving him up, and I let you leave out of the kindness in my heart, maybe even give you the opportunity to take a few more infants before you leave town, they’re not all that important anyway.” Infants? What did this man mean? “Or, I take him by force, and put an end to your insufferable behavior in my presence. I'm rather leaning toward number two, I do dislike being disobeyed."

Another hiss from Lamia. Was the man talking about _killing_ her? Why did he want to take Stiles away? The teen shook his pounding head sharply, grabbed Lamia and pulled her to his side. "You're not taking me anywhere, I don't even _know_ you."

This finally made the man look up from where he was examining his nails, his eyes flashing brilliantly behind his eyelashes, and there was something about it that made Stiles feel like he'd made the wrong choice. Some aching, nagging feeling that was trying to tear its way through his chest. Did he really not know this man?

"You see, he _likes_ being here with me," Lamia said, her voice returning to a tender, honey softness. She lightly swiped her knuckles down Stiles' cheek, relaxing him.

"No, I love you," Stiles confessed instantly, the words falling out of his mouth unintentionally. He found himself grasping at his lips, like he could grab them and shove them back in. His body went cold again, his stomach churned, his heart hurt. He felt _guilty_.

The man tensed as the words fell from Stiles' lips, his arms almost wrapping impossibly tighter around his body. Stiles had said something _wrong_ , very wrong, but he didn't understand _why_ it was wrong. Why did this man care at all? Stiles hadn’t even meant to say it, but he couldn’t dispute it now. His tongue didn’t move.

"Option two it is," the wolf man sighed, like it was almost a burden.

Then too many things happened at once, in a rush. Lamia whirled on him, grabbed Stiles sharply under his jaw, and shoved his head to the side, her mouth opening wide, too wide, inhumanly wide, and ready to bite down on his neck. (Why was she trying to bite him? Seriously, what the hell?!)

At the same time, the man lashed out, his fingernails extending into claws. Stiles shrieked out in surprise at both developments, then stared flailing, trying to move away from the two of them.

The man caught Lamia around the jaw, similar to her hold on Stiles, and jerked her away, slammed her down, forcing her to the ground. The girl hissed, tried to wiggle out of his grip, screamed fiercely as it slowly turned into an inhuman shriek.  
"Lamia!" Stiles yelled, reaching a hand out for her.

At least, until something started happening to her. As she wiggled, writhed there on the ground, her legs began to press together. Her skirt flew up and around her thighs, thighs that slowly started to change color, change shape.

One moment, her legs were shapely, pale, perfect, and human. The next, they lengthened, merged together, faded into a dark green with even darker diamond designs. Grew scales.

Lamia struggled on the ground, her legs finally forming into a long, powerful, muscular tail, a snake's tail. She looked like the nightmare version of a mermaid. Her eyes, still the beautiful hazel, turned sharper, her pupils shrank to even smaller slits. She grew _fangs_.

With a sharp slap of her powerful tail, she shoved the man off of her, his claws tearing large gashes into her jaw, her cheek. Lamia shrieked at him, hissed momentarily, her hand moving to her face to stop the blood.

What on Earth was going on? Stiles suddenly felt lost and hopeless, watching these two people (things?) attack each other. But he was slowly losing interest in Lamia, at least, the love he felt for her. It was like it was slowly seeping out of his body the more he watched everything in front of him. How could he be so shallow…she was perfect, right? She was his…

The man took a handkerchief out of his pocket, lovingly wiped off each of his claws. "Have you changed your mind yet?" He asked without even glancing up.

The snake girl didn't answer, instead, she hissed once more, a rattle coming from inside her chest in warning. She slithered closer to Peter on her tail. Ritually, she began pulling off her clothes, finding them unnecessary (at least he assumed).

"Interesting," she hissed down, her voice seemingly calmer than she looked. She began taking a large circle around the wolf man. "You know, he doesn't feel anything for you. Not even before I took him. How could he even like someone like you?"

The man straightened his back, but his face remained completely blank, devoid of feeling. What was Lamia even talking about? Stiles didn't know this man, so why would he feel something for him? The man didn’t even look in Stiles’ direction. Obviously didn’t care.

Suddenly, the teen felt nauseous.

"Assuming that I actually need him to feel anything for me to claim him, I really don’t care" the man answered with another roll of his eyes. Hey, this was getting very invasive. Stiles did have opinions and choices.

"You'd make a good lamia," Lamia said, her sickeningly sweet voice coming back. It sounded misshapen coming from her now.

"I'd make an excellent a lot of things."

Stiles could hardly keep up with the conversation. His head was swirling, and Lamia was spinning around the man in circles, and the man didn’t even bothering turning to follow her with his eyes. Stiles felt the energy draining out of him, sinking to the ground, his palms lying flat to keep him from falling over, his vision blackening. It was like all of his emotions were fighting inside of him. Like he was trying to remember repressed memories, trying to break out, and there was a drumming too loudly in his head.

The man looked over at him finally, took in his position on the ground, tensed, and then relaxed again. His sharp blue eyes found Lamia.

"A lot of things except a good mate, I'm sure," Lamia finally answered, like she was weighing the options.

"I'm sure I'd be incredibly doting." It sounded mocking.

Suddenly, it was almost like time was up. The two of them coiled at once, and then jumped at each other rapidly. The man slashed at Lamia's tail, she snapped at his side. The two bodies clashed and collided, all fangs and claws, tail whips and slashes. Lamia shrieked, and the man growled.

The scene was hard to concentrate on, in fact, it made Stiles dizzy. Too dizzy. He was slipping away, fast, felt the consciousness draining out of him. He focused just long enough to see the man get shoved against the tree, and then the teen fell, only seeing earth, and then nothing.

***

"Stiles" echoed in his head, a shout, a man shouting it. But he was too faded.

He heard nothing for a few moments, until his eyes fluttered open, heard the sounds of fighting, watched the man pin Lamia down. _His_ Lamia. No. Not his Lamia. He didn't even want Lamia. Lamia wasn't...Lamia was a thing. She was a creature. She’d lied to him. 

Stiles gripped at the earth, caught soil in his hands. Tried to push himself up.

The wolf man gripped Lamia's shoulder, placed a knee on her sternum, pressed against it so hard Stiles thought he heard bones cracking. She shrieked, shoved against the man, cried out. Actually cried. She was crying, loud sobs. Cuts on her face were bleeding down her neck; her tail was coiling around itself like a worm cut in half, the tail itself cut open in too many places.

The man's back was ripped open, not just his shirt, his actual back. But the flesh seemed to almost be magically stitching itself together, or at least attempting. For some reason it kept stopping, ripping back open. And there was some sort of dark, brown liquid, too watery to be blood, dripping down, staining the man’s shirt. The wolf's face had changed, somehow, but he wasn't facing Stiles clear enough to see.

"This wasn't my choice! This wasn't my choice! This wasn't my choice!" Lamia kept screaming, slamming her fists into the ground, arching her back to try and shove the man off, a child throwing a temper tantrum. She swung her tail wildly on the ground as it tried to wriggle in on itself. "I didn't make me like this! I didn’t want to be like this! This wasn't my choice!"

The man may have chuckled, Stiles wasn't sure. Was he...was he taking pleasure out of this? He was…he was grinning down at her.

Just as he saw Lamia's tail sweep up, and come crashing down on the man's head, forcing him off her at last, Stiles felt his vision fade once more.

And everything was silent.

***

When he woke again, Stiles felt like his mouth was made of cotton. He lapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times, trying to draw forward saliva. He wasn't sure what in the world had happened, but there was something he felt like he should have been awake for. Where even was he? He smelled dirt. Lots of dirt. And blood and...

The sound of a chilling, amused, laugh flooded the air. His eyes snapped open, unsure of what the hell had made the noise when all of a sudden in front of him, he saw the girl from the other night at the party. Except, it wasn't her. Well, it was totally her, but for some reason she was half a fucking snake. And she had her long, gross tail wrapped around....around....

Peter. She had her tail wrapped around Peter. Peter’s neck.

Stiles' stomach dropped out, his heart began racing. He found himself scrambling to his feet, shouting something, and he was sure it was something along the lines of “Peter”, but he couldn't be quite sure. He reached his hands out, and Lamia turned to look at him. A smirk curling onto her pretty lips.

Peter was unconscious. For once, he was completely unconscious.

"I'm hurt, Stiles," she whispered. "He hurt me. You hurt me. I can't...do you know how it feels for someone you care about so much to die? Do you know? Can you imagine? Should I just..." She squeezed tightly around Peter's neck, seemed to enjoy watching the wolf’s face redden. She’d completely snapped.

"Stop!" Stiles found himself begging. "Don't hurt him! I know! I do! But don't hurt him."

"They took him away from me," Lamia sobbed softly, more to herself. Her hands started racing through her muddied blonde hair, streaked with blood and earth. "They took him away. They took him away."

"Put Peter down, please," Stiles said, moving closer. “Who? Who took him away from you?”

"It doesn't even matter," the girl sobbed out, tears rolling down her dirt-streaked face. She didn't even seem to be listening to Stiles anymore. Just muttered woefully to herself.

"Peter, Peter!" He tried calling. But there was no way that he could reach up to grab him, her tail held the wolf so high in the air. Stiles looked for anything, anything at all that he could attack with. He could stab her, right? He could hit her over the head with a rock? “Lamia, stop, please.”

Lamia brought the werewolf closer, her mouth opening through stuttered sobs, her fangs elongating. Slowly, her jaw stretched past what was humanly possible, her head tilting at the same time, ready to bite into Peter's neck.

For some reason he just couldn't lose Peter, the thought of it hit him square in the chest like a brick. With the werewolf unconscious before him, Stiles would be more than ready to admit that no, he needed Peter. Needed Peter more than anything in the world.  
In a rush of despair, Stiles shouted, demanding the girl to listen, demanding her to release the wolf, Peter who he couldn’t lose, "I said _stop_!" 

And just like that, as he said the word, as if on command--the world froze.

Wind stopped rustling the leaves. Branches stopped swaying. The sound of the river stopped. Insects stopped in midair. A bird stopped, wings tucked close into its body, floating in the sky. The sun even stopped shifting above him. The world _stopped_.

But most importantly, Lamia stopped reaching toward Peter's neck. She was paused there, her fangs barely touching skin, poised and ready to bite down.

Time stopped.

Stiles took a moment to gasp for breath, pleased he was allowed to move at will, the only thing moving. The world became fake around him, a museum exhibit to examine all on his own.

"Time stops. It actually stops. I mean, I can...I can stop time," he said breathlessly, looking down at his hands. “I seriously just landed in every magic movie ever.” In a quick moment of silent surprise, marvel, he couldn't understand where this power came from. 

Except it didn't matter at the moment, it was something for him to revel at later.

Right now Peter was being choked by a snake woman and _what could Stiles do_? How long did he have? Could he...could he kill her? Should he kill her? She was going to kill Peter. She was probably going to kill _him_. Was there really a time to debate ethics at this moment? Would he even debate if it was Scott, or his dad, or…

As quickly as Stiles could move in his faded, energy-zapped state, he crawled toward Lamia. He climbed up her tail, forcibly unraveled it from around Peter's neck. The wolf had bruises there--dark, thick, black, blue, purple bruises.

Peter's body felt ungracefully to the ground, and Stiles scrambled after him, water streaking down his face, and he wasn't sure if it was tears or sweat, or both. But he gripped Peter around the cheeks, straddling the wolf's body. Stiles took in a shaky breath. "You better be okay, you asshole. I will be so pissed off if not. Do not make me start messing with blood magic now, because I so will. Come on! You selfheal, you should have this down! You always talk about how super awesome and powerful you are now prove it to me. Let’s go!"

He punched Peter in the face, but nothing happened. He slapped him, punched him in the chest-- nothing. Tears blocked his vision, but he kept trying to wake the wolf, shake him to consciousness.

After a few minutes, the teen heard a crack, and everything around him seemed to shift, just barely, a centimeter. But he was running out of time. Lamia’s tail started to twitch. He didn’t have long enough to try and wake Peter, no, he needed to protect him, or else.

What if time was stopped everywhere? He couldn't call for help from Jaylen or Thomas, what if they froze on the way there? He couldn’t lift Peter and run with him. He couldn’t hold back time enough for the wolf to heal on his own. He couldn’t do anything but face the girl snake.

Finally, Stiles forced himself up to his feet, turned to Lamia as he drew his arm over his eyes. They stung with dirt and tears, but he didn’t care. This really wasn’t the time for ethics. What did he have at his disposal?

In an act of sheer desperation, Stiles conjured every ounce of strength inside his body, forced himself to keep from passing out. He raced to his Jeep, dug through bags, his glove compartment, everything, until he found a hunting knife. After grabbing it, he ran back to Peter, to Lamia, watched as her tail began swishing in real time, trying to wrap around a thing no longer there.

The insects around him began to move again. He heard wind.

A shriek erupted from Lamia's lungs, even if she couldn't fully move yet.

Positioning himself in front of the fallen werewolf, Stiles held the knife out, watched Lamia with a dangerous glint in his eyes. His heart hardened. She was attacking his companion; someone who had...Peter was...

He was pack. Almost like family.

And Stiles would do anything to protect family.

Stiles let go of the knife, let it float briefly in midair before he watched it soar, a blur of steal, right at the throat of the lamia in front of him.


	6. Remember Me As A Time Of Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that the lamia has been killed, Peter discovers he isn't healing immediately. But Stiles is more than willing to help.

Sunlight flooded in through the curtains, landing over his eyes in stripes.

He woke slowly, like he had been drugged, eyelids not quite ready to open just then, the light landing on them making him see only red. Instead of rising, he shifted, confused as to why he was sleeping on his stomach instead of his back like he usually did. Even his side was better than his stomach.

Peter went to tilt his hips to the side, roll over, when a sharp pain shot through his back, his spine. The werewolf hissed to himself, sucked in a breath. What was going on? Why was he in pain? That shouldn't happen, he was a werewolf after all, he had self healing. What had happened?

His memories didn't come back to him immediately, and when they did they were fuzzy around the edges, like a dream. The last thing he could even remember was going to find the lamia--then finding Stiles.

Stiles.

Despite the pain in his body, Peter jerked himself up, forced his eyes open. He hissed through the pain, ready to jump up from wherever he was to attack whatever he needed, just to make sure that Stiles was okay. The wolf's mind didn't fully register where he was considering when he had blacked out he had been in the woods. So he figured he wouldn't have moved.

At least, until his hands sank into the softness beneath him. There was cushion. There was a mattress.

Peter glanced down briefly, sheets sliding to one side and off his body, and noticed he was on a bed, his bed, before quickly scanning the room.

It was his room for sure. He was inside his own room, had been sleeping peacefully on his own bed.

What the hell was going on? It wasn't like Peter could have unconsciously wandered back to his apartment, cleaned himself up, and crawled into bed, at least it was very unlikely.

There was a tightness around his chest, his stomach. Peter brushed aside the silk robe he was wearing to look down at himself. There were tightly wrapped gauze bandages running down his torso, almost to the tops of his hip bones. He had minor, healing cuts all over his body, at least where he could see, but those didn't hurt, were barely noticeable in fact.

Peter didn't _need_ bandages though. He was a werewolf, he _healed_. So why wasn't he healing?

Taking great care for his back, the wolf shifted to the edge of the bed, and then finally off of it, standing as full as he could, but still slightly hunched, a sharp pull constantly in his back. What hadn't healed yet? He barely remembered the actual fight with the lamia, far too concerned with Stiles' safety the entire time. He didn't remember his back being cut open at all.

Once more, the wolf looked around the room. There were bloody, dirty clothes folded inside his laundry basket. There was a sandwich and a glass of water on the table next to the bed. Even his phone was waiting on the table, plugged into its charger. In the same position that he usually kept it.

Everything looked perfectly normal, like he had set himself for a nap, ready to eat when waking.

But Peter knew this set up with the sandwich and the water, knew it very well. This was the same thing he did for Stiles each and every time the boy passed out after practicing magic.

Peter felt a warmth that he didn't know he could still possess, somewhere low in his chest.

It was a familiar, comfortable feeling, at least when associated with Stiles.

The wolf nodded to himself, slowly, before padding, with great difficulty, to the bathroom. He stood in front of the mirror, shocked at his own appearance.

His still had thick, spotty purple bruises all over his neck, wrapped all around his neck, his shoulders, his collarbones. His collarbones felt like they had been broken and were still trying to heal properly. The discs in his neck felt out of place. But his face was relatively unscathed, albeit pale.

As he turned to look at his back, he noticed first that it was still bleeding, which was surprising, shocking. It should have healed by now. But the wound ran diagonally down his back, starting at his right shoulder and heading to his lower left hip. It seemed like it was stitched together, at least it felt like it under the bandages. He must have been out for a while.

Glancing to his trashcan, he saw dirtied towels and old, bloody bandages. Definitely out for a while if he'd had his bandages changed.

Moving at half his normal pace, Peter made his way back into the bedroom, and then to the door to the hall. Was he alone? Was Stiles still here? It was hard to tell since Stiles' scent filled his apartment so much normally. But there wasn't the sound of another heartbeat, at least not in his apartment, so he doubted it.

How did Stiles even get him all the way here, as well as clean him and wrap him?

Shuffling out into the hallway, Peter kept glancing around for any sign of the boy. Though he didn't see one until he made it out and into the living room. There were several blankets spread over the couch, as well as a pillow that most certainly wasn't his. There were textbooks and spell books spread everywhere, and bags of food, left over glasses half full of water.

Stiles had been sleeping there and taking care of him for however long.

Peter smirked to himself, softly, trying to decide just what this all meant.

He should be terrified, that's what it meant.

To briefly distract himself, he gathered the left over dishes and glassware and went to put them in the dishwasher. Then the folded the blankets, stacked them on top of each other, put the pillow on top of that. The pillow smelled so thickly of Stiles, Peter debated taking it back to his room with him, but he didn't.

Instead, he just fixed everything up, without even really thinking about it. Then he headed back for his room. No point in staying awake at the moment, and he still did feel rather groggy.

As he crawled back onto his bed, he grabbed his phone, pulled it close. There were a few text messages, but he didn't bother checking anything from Mizuki or other acquaintances. The only one he read was the one that was from Stiles. A simple "Text me if you wake up please."

The warmth flooded him again, briefly.

Peter stretched out on his side, and rolled the blankets back on top of him. Did Stiles have a class? The wolf didn't exactly what to disturb him during class or else Stiles would rush out of there. At the same time, if he found out Peter woke up and didn't tell him about it, he would face a teenage wrath later for sure.

Peter sent back quickly, "I'm awake," and just that. He did have several questions. Where was the lamia? What had happened? Did Stiles even remember what happened in the woods? Was the teen safe, or what he cut up like Peter too? How did they get away?

Stiles clearly at least remembered him again. The wolf wouldn't admit how much it had irritated him that Stiles didn't know who he was. But Peter pretended it was just because of his ego. Really, who could forget him after all? Peter was unforgettable. It had nothing to do with the fact that Peter thought of the teen in a fond sort of way.

Barely any time passed before his phone buzzed in his hand. Peter lifted it to see Stiles's answer of "OH THANK GOD." And another, "Just got out, omw."

Setting his phone back on the table, Peter rolled over onto his stomach and debated actually sleeping more now that he knew Stiles was coming over. It couldn't really hurt. Maybe the grogginess would go away. Stiles had obviously been getting in and out of his apartment without him, most likely by taking his keys, so that wouldn't really be an issue.

As he pondered, Peter stopped thinking all together.

Fell asleep tell himself, no, he should get up.

***

"I thought you said you were up."

Stiles' voice came into his ears, but it was gentle. Peter opened his eyes, surprised that the teen had even managed to get inside, walk into his room, heartbeat speeding in his chest, and not wake Peter up. It was interesting that his words did though. Apparently Peter didn't think of Stiles as a threat even while in his most vulnerable state.

"I'm awake," Peter answered, slowly shifting back to his side and sitting up. Another sharp pain shot through his back.

Stiles' face immediately dropped. "I-I don't know why it's not healing. I spent a few hours looking up lamias and their poisons and everything. I asked Deaton, Mizuki too. They both said you'd be okay once the poison is completely out of your system. But I feel like it should be by now."

The boy leaned over, hands hovering over Peter like he wanted to help, do something, like he probably had been the past few days. Peter shook his head, lightly pushed the hands away. He would be okay.

Except Stiles a look of hurt flickered over Stiles' face then. Peter sighed softly. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"You say that, and yet..." Stiles started.

"I woke up from being almost completely burned to death, and brought myself back from the dead, Stiles. This is nothing."

"Oh yeah, sure, throw those in my face," Stiles gave a pathetic little smile, but it faded quickly. He really was worried.

The werewolf sighed softly again, moved the blankets aside and stood up. "Are you alright?" He found himself asking, hand coming to Stiles' jaw. To just examine him. Or something.

"Yeah, 'm better. I called Jay and Thomas right after...everything, so, they had to come and get us. Thomas was way more interested in the half snake girl, Jaylen said, but...apparently I...passed out right after the phone call. I don't have many more details until I woke up next to you in Thomas' car."

"And you've been sleeping here? You should have gone to your place to rest."

"That is a very Peter way for saying 'wow Stiles, thank you for saving my life and dragging my werewolf ass home and taking care of me. I really appreciate it. Yes, you can stay at my apartment whenever you want because mi casa es su casa."

Peter smirked to himself, let Stiles go. "Yes, that."

"Wait--really?"

Peter glanced back at him, eyebrows raised in assurance, while on his way to the bathroom, slipping his robe off his shoulders as he went. He began to peel off the bandages, but Stiles was by his side in a moment, smacking his hands away to do it for him.

"I can do this myself now," Peter answered, and usually he would be more irritated by something like this, but he was strangely okay with it. He spread his arms out as high as he could lift them without his back pulling.

"It's cool," Stiles shook his head. "Kinda like unwrapping a present."

It obviously wasn't something he'd meant to say, his verbal vomit getting the better of him once again, and Stiles' cheeks tinged pink immediately. The boy began focusing on unwrapping the bandages like they were the most interesting things in the wold. "Like, you know, abs I will never achieve sort of thing, nothing more than that, yeah, you just have really nice abs," he covered.

"I see." Peter couldn't keep the small smirk off his face. Smile? His voice it...it sounded tender. It sounded gentle while they stood in this odd exchange of power between the two of them. Somehow, even wounded, even allowing Stiles to tend to his wounds, he still held a place of power. He wasn't vulnerable. But neither was Stiles. There was a balance between them, shifting, moving, and Peter was unusually okay with it.

"Yeah, but whatever, you know this whole experience has made me learn a lesson though. Don't drink with supernatural creatures. They try to seduce you and suck out your blood. Like man, I don't even really remember anything but feeling super happy, and then I remember waking up on the ground and she was killing you. It was pretty trippy." If Stiles noticed the shifting power, he didn't mention it. But Peter doubted he was aware. Stiles didn't take things like that into consideration.

"So you don't remember my arrival?"

"No, not at all. I remember being really upset we were interrupted by something. I know I was pretty confused for a while too. Maybe hurt. I kinda just remember the emotions I guess."

"And you killed her?"

Stiles paused, pulling the last of the bandages off Peter's hips. The boy swallowed thickly, eyes casting down momentarily. He regretted it. That guilty, sour smell came back. But then, interestingly enough, it seemed to wash away. "Y-yeah," Stiles stuttered, clearing his throat. "But she...she was going to kill you, so I...you know it was a--"

"You don't have to explain, Stiles," the werewolf told him, lifting the boy's chin up with a finger to meet at eye level. "It was a necessity. It was honorable. Many people have killed on the battle field before, and they don't apologize for it. They're celebrated."

Though his chin was being held up, Stiles looked away, eyes brightening, glossing over. Tears, not that they fell. Peter had no time for tears, but he didn't say anything about them. If Stiles needed them to retain his humanity then tears there would be. "Yeah but I still--"

"Don't want to take advice on killing from a serial killer?"

"No! No, no that's not it--I just...look, you don't...I'm different."

"True. I'm far less spastic than you are. Maybe a bit more snobby.--"

"A bit?" Stiles smirked at him, eyes still downcast. He tried to sniff inconspicuously.

"Far more snobbish than you are. I can cook, also--"

"You know what I mean by different, Peter."

The wolf lowered his hand from the boy's chin, looked him over briefly before turning, letting Stiles examine his back. "Thank you, Stiles, for saving my life, and dragging my werewolf ass home and taking care of me. Mi casa es su casa."

The change of subject seemed to work, at least a little. Stiles huffed a small laugh to himself, leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Peter's neck, the boy's hands landing near his shoulder blades, though not touching the wound and very briefly. A moment later he was moving away quickly, busying himself with a washcloth, like he wasn't supposed to be there. Like Peter didn't want him there.

And the damnedest thing was, Peter did. Peter really wanted him to stay there.

But this was...these were comfortable touches. Stiles was taking care of him, yes, except this wasn't, in any way, different from how Stiles normally treated pack. Stiles was very close with all of them. This wasn't some kind of significant relationship. This was pack. Stiles would do the same for Lydia or Scott.

Stiles still thought of Peter as a killer, the monster that he had been. Stiles probably wouldn't think of Peter another way for as long as they lived. And that was something the wolf had to accept. He had fully expected to endure the consequences of his actions, even the unforeseen ones.

"You are so not allowed to die on me, asshole," Stiles said, running the wet washcloth over Peter's back to clean up small traces of blood.

"I don't have plans on it any time soon," Peter answered. "I can just come back again anyway. Maybe I'll use you to aid me this time instead of Lydia."

"If you make her go running through the woods naked again, or seriously fuck with her mind, I don't know if I'll be able to talk to you again. Not that I'd really enjoy running naked through the woods either. I'm not graceful...I'd lose something." Stiles' hand moved, grabbed onto his jeans, and Peter could only imagine just where. The wolf smirked.

"I'll watch myself..."

"Oh, and I'd so steal all your stuff. Especially the books. Think of them as a token to remember you by," finally Stiles sounded like he had a grin to his voice.

"You'd remember me by my books?" Peter inquired, glancing behind his shoulder at the teen, lifting his arms slowly as Stiles began to wrap bandages around him again. "Not the worst thing to be remembered by, I suppose."

"Better than how I remembered you when you first died," Stiles admitted quietly. "I'd much rather prefer to remember you as the snobby guy with cool books."

Humming softly in thought, Peter shrugged a shoulder, which earned him a click of tongue against teeth for Stiles, who was displeased Peter messed up his straight bandage lines. "I'd prefer you remember me as a time of day."

"Sometimes I don't think you realize how lame you sound."

"Dawn and dusk, definitely. Maybe dusk."

"And why, oh vague man, would you like me to remember you as dusk?"

It was right before bed for one thing. Peter didn't say that out loud though. Instead, he shrugged again, turned to face Stiles while the boy pinned his bandages together, then worked on straightening them out. "It's when we worked on magic together. Would be fitting. A designated time each day to worship me, as it should be."

"Yeah, well," Stiles said, looking up at Peter finally, another attempt at a pathetic smile on his lips. The boy pat Peter on the chest sharply, twice. "Don't die and I won't have to remember you as anything yet."

Then the teen was rushing out of the bathroom, hand running along his forehead like he was sweating, like he had just had a close call with something that terrified him.

Peter went to his closet and pulled out a shirt and jeans, slipped them on slowly, carefully. He really should have healed by now.

"How many days has it been?" He asked.

"Three," Stiles answered, his voice already down the hall. "I've been sleeping here the past two nights. Which, stop trying to clean while you're injured. Give yourself a fucking break, okay?"

"Maybe if you stop being so inexplicably messy all the time." The wolf rolled his eyes, and once again, he knew, somewhere deep inside, it had fondness attached to it. "You're in my apartment, I think you can clean up after yourself."

"But it takes so much effoortt." There was an audible pout as Stiles dropped down onto the couch.

The next moment, Peter was walking out into the living room to join the boy, sitting down in his usual chair and leaning gently back. "You're a child."

"Excuse you, who took care of your ass the last three days?"

"You've been very focused on my ass today."

Stiles went bright red, staring at Peter with a mild look of horror, his mouth opening and closing a few times. "So am not! It's a swear! I'm allowed to swear." His usual guard totally fell down around him, making Peter smirk.

"Children aren't allowed to swear."

"Oh my God! You're such an a--annoying--dick."

"Oh, now you're upgrading. I'm more than satisfied with this new direction."

Stiles chucked a book at his head.

***

Later that night, after Stiles fell asleep on the couch, face smushed into his pillow, mouth wide open and his ass in the air, Peter had simply thrown a blanket over him and went to his own room. His back was feeling better, clearly the poison was almost done exiting his system and his back would be normal in no time. He hated feeling pain for this long. His body had never been fast at healing after the fire, so something this strong had to have been taking severely longer than it should. It was annoying. He was a werewolf, meant to heal instantly.

Still, he laid down on his bed, on his side so as to not bother his back any more, slid off his jeans, and reached for his phone.

Most of the messages he had received were pointless, but the ones from Mizuki needed to be looked into. The first one was "I hear your boy killed the lamia?" And then, "Drink plenty of water to help get the poison out, take it easy. Stiles seemed to be taking good care of you. He seems incredibly attentive." And one last one, "He is very worried about you."

As Peter stared at the last one in silence, his phone blacked out. It was the only thing that made him actually put his phone down on the table.

Well, Stiles met Mizuki, and Peter couldn't protect him from that. Stiles had wanted to meet her, apparently even after hearing about her, and he did. There was nothing more that could be done.

Still, the wolf didn't answer her messages. There was nothing there that required an answer. She knew they'd gotten rid of the lamia, and that was all she needed to know. That was the only important part. Stiles had filled Peter in on the details the wolf had been shaky with, on what exactly had happened. Stiles grinned when he said he finally performed a successful offensive spell, and that maybe he just needed something to protect.

Peter agreed with that.

And when Stiles told him about stopping time, well, Peter was filled with a mixture of thoughts, of pride, of awe even. Stopping time wasn't any easy feat, and it probably wasn't something that Stiles could just master. It had to have come from a strong emotion, most likely fear. Peter assumed it was fear for Stiles' life. One usually did do anything they could to survive, even tap into hidden power, like the ability to stop time.

It also mean that Stiles had far more power, far more potential, than Peter would have ever guessed.

But the wolf also filled Stiles in with some information, though nothing about how the wolf had claimed him, in a way. Really, Peter had never claimed Stiles, would probably be hunted with pitch forks and torches if he did. Though he at least told Stiles about how deep he was in for the lamia, their seductive powers very strong.

Stiles had rolled his eyes and wrinkled his nose.

"I mean, she was cute but I didn't like...actually like her," Stiles said. It may have put Peter at a bit of ease. "She was like....too perfect."

"That's pretty standard for them," Peter had mentioned.

But now it was over, it was done with. The lamia was dead, and Stiles was safe, and Peter was on the mend. Their fight from a few days before the encounter didn't even cross Peter's mind, and didn't seem to bother Stiles anymore either.

As Peter closed his eyes, tried to sleep, to heal, he focused in on the soft sounds of Stiles' breathing, his heartbeat, his small shifts on the couch.

Stiles wasn't just a time of day, he was every part of it.

Peter wouldn't mind if he was every part of it.


	7. A Song For Our Fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles goes home for spring break. Peter is up to no good. (What's knew?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, only a little Steter in this one. Sorry. But hey! The next book is the climax where everything goes to Hell...so...:] Thanks for sticking with me. Hope you stick around to read "Those Who Tell The Truth Shall Die, Those Who Tell The Truth Shall Live Forever."
> 
> I also imagine Peter's dad to be a huge dick. Kinda like Odin, like, loved Talia and treated Peter terribly. Just work with me.

Stiles never imagined that leaving to go back to his home-home would ever make him feel this reluctant.

For the first half of the year, he had been homesick beyond belief, calling his dad every night, and wondering if he should call him more than that. He never really came outright and told his dad he’d made a mistake leaving so early, but he had.

And yeah, Jaylen and Thomas had helped settle some of that homesickness, but no matter how much he liked them, they were no substitute for Scott. For Lydia. Allison. Although, he didn’t let the pack know (why would he? He’s the one who left), until that one night after the bug incident. God, he had even missed Derek!

And no one, no one would take the place of his dad. So that was a hollowness that didn’t go away.

But as he packed up his things to leave Peter's apartment, planned on leaving the day after, he found himself stalling, hesitating. He put his books in slowly, one by one. Stiles didn’t understand why he wasn’t bouncing out of the apartment and counting down the minutes until he left.

The wolf hadn't said much about his departure either, and didn't seem like he was bothered by it. Not that Peter ever really seemed bothered by anything.

The last few months had been a whirlwind of emotions, and Stiles wasn't sure if he liked it or not. But he did know one thing: Peter had sapped the homesickness right out of him, at least after the initial shock. Peter made it so that Stiles would barely even think of home. His father had made a couple of comments that he was glad Stiles wasn't calling him every night at this point, glad that Stiles was busy enough with “friends” that he wasn't just sitting around and missing everyone. College was supposed to be the time of his life!

If only his father knew.

And it wasn't like Stiles didn't miss everyone still. He did. A lot. He wished that the pack could be doing these investigations together like they did in Beacon Hills, but he also knew that it wouldn't be the same if they were there. 

He wouldn't be with Peter, not like this, and he _liked _this time with Peter. He liked that he didn't get guilt tripped for liking his time with Peter. The werewolf really wasn't so bad when everyone stopped expecting the worst of him, because it was almost as if the wolf had to rise to the challenge for fear of losing his reputation. He needed to prove that he was as big and bad as everyone thought.__

__On a selfish level, Stiles liked getting to know the man, learn things about him that no one else probably knew. He liked that he knew what Peter liked on his sandwiches, or what kind of shampoo he used. He enjoyed knowing how much of a neat freak the werewolf was. These things never came up at pack meetings._ _

__He liked their small touches, only between them and never mentioned, as if they had some great secret together. Peter had grown softer, calmer. Peter allowed Stiles to even take care of him, no, they took care of each other. It felt like an honor, almost.  
But also, Peter helped Stiles in ways that others couldn't. Stiles knew how disappointed his father would have been watching him fight Lamia. Stiles knew the anxious, nervous, hurt, confused looks Scott would have given him for killing something. Someone._ _

__Peter didn't do that though, and it wasn't because Peter was barbaric, or enjoyed the kill (okay, he was occasionally barbaric, and did totally enjoy the kill but that wasn't the point). Peter knew that Stiles would defend anyone so close to him. Peter knew that sometimes, the choice really did come down to life and death, and protecting the ones you love over letting them die well..._ _

__Peter did kill everyone involved with his family's death._ _

__Not that the wolf ever mentioned that it had made him feel better._ _

__Overall, Peter didn't judge Stiles for what he had done, and that was worth a lot. Stiles already felt guilty enough, he didn't need anyone else's judgment on top of it. And really, Peter didn't even display if he was proud that Stiles killed something or not. So it wasn’t like the wolf was celebrating and telling Stiles killing was alright. It just didn't even matter between them. If Peter was proud that Stiles had finally crossed his (barely there to begin with) morals, well...He didn't mention it._ _

__Could Scott really complain that Stiles had killed something that ate babies for a living though?_ _

__Probably. It was still killing._ _

__Stiles bit his lower lip while he zipped up his backpack. He needed to actually see Scott...soon maybe. But at the same time he kind of hoped to postpone it. Spring break was so short...there was really no point, right? He should...just hold on._ _

__What made him think Scott even wanted to see him? They'd only had sparse conversations since winter break anyway._ _

__"So, I'm heading home tomorrow," Stiles announced solemnly to Peter, sliding the strap of his bag over one shoulder._ _

__"Send your regards to your father for me," Peter mentioned without looking up from his book._ _

__Stiles took in a soft breath, looked away from the wolf. Why did he want more of a goodbye than that? It was stupid. It was just a week. But Peter could look like he would at least miss him a little. Didn’t any of what they had gone through together count for anything?_ _

__Peter Hale didn't really miss people though, did he?_ _

__"Right! Okay, yeah, cool," Stiles mentioned awkwardly, with a false up-beat tone, before nodding and walking to the door. "I guess, bye."_ _

__When his hand was on the knob, he tried to pull the door open. But suddenly, Peter's hand appeared, pressed against the door next to him, forcing it closed. The teen looked up at the wolf with wide eyes, momentarily confused, and maybe momentarily cross-eyed by staring at the older man so close to him._ _

__"Moping away isn't really your style," Peter smirked, cocking his head to one side._ _

__"I wasn't moping." Stiles at least attempted a glare. He was moping a little._ _

__"One day you'll realize you can't lie to me." Peter gave a dramatic sigh, like he was working with a simpleton._ _

__"One day you'll stop being a dick just to see a reaction out of me."_ _

__Peter's mouth opened, just slightly, like he had some kind of witty comeback that he deemed unnecessary (for once), and closed it again, lips in constant smirk. "I've seen your driving skills, and other humans aren't better. Keep an eye out."_ _

__"You know, you can just tell me to drive safely."_ _

__"I'd be rather put out if I'd invested so much time and energy into you and your magic, just to hear you'd destroyed yourself with something as simple as a car wreck."_ _

__"See, that's the Peter I know and...sometimes tolerate."_ _

__Standing there, in their comfortable banter, Peter boxing Stiles in against the door, Stiles felt his chest swell. Something warm growing in a way that he knew was dangerous. His hair stood on end, and he became so perceptive, alert. He leaned back against the door, pressed the back of his head softly against it, neck arching and bared, not that he cared as he smirked at the older man in front of him._ _

__"Do drive safely," Peter told him at last, raising his hand for a condescending pat to Stiles' cheek._ _

__It felt intimate. Way too intimate. Breathing in the air of each other intimate. Stiles wondered, and not for the first time he realized, what this would be like--them, together. But it was fleeting, and maybe that was necessary so that Stiles' heartbeat didn't get any faster than it already was. Maybe, just maybe, Peter felt it too._ _

__The room was filled with a warm, setting sunlight, making the colors of the apartment glow golden. Made _Peter_ golden. Everything was so quiet, the air still. Light shined off Peter's eyes, making them glasslike, bright._ _

__What if he just leaned forward?_ _

__"Glad to know you'd miss me." Stiles' voice was quieter than he meant, but probably made up for it trying to match the cocky look on Peter's face. They were both smirking, between each other as if they knew each other's secret, just like their touches. "Promise I'll be safe. Need me to text you when I get there and everything?"_ _

__"Could I really stop you if you tried?" Peter's tone was low, almost rough._ _

__It would be so easy. So easy for Stiles to lean forward now, to experience, experiment with something so..._ _

__But in reality, Peter would probably push him away. This was a game. Everything was a game with Peter. Was the wolf just trying to get a reaction from him again? What would happen if Stiles actually gave into this sudden want that bubbled up inside of him?_ _

__The warmth faded from him._ _

__"I'll text you," Stiles said quietly, reached a hand to pat Peter's chest, though it ended up somewhere on his shoulder. Peter sensed the shift in the air, obviously, because he pushed back immediately, made room for Stiles to leave._ _

__As soon as the teen was outside the apartment building, he caught a breath, scrubbed a hand down his face._ _

__He couldn't do this. He couldn't let this happen. He couldn't let himself have a crush, even if it became incredibly obvious that he'd already let himself fall into one. Stiles Stilinski could not get a crush on one Peter Hale. Peter Hale. He was dangerous; he killed people in cold blood._ _

__But did he really?_ _

__Anyway, when had this even happened? When did this crush even started?_ _

__Somewhere between the soft touches, the reassurance, and the care provided after magic. Maybe it happened when Peter had so much faith in him, thought so highly of his abilities._ _

__Maybe between saving each other's lives._ _

__Or maybe it was always there. Stiles knew he'd always found Peter attractive, but now it was actually a crush. A full blown, Peter-raised-the-moon kinda of crush._ _

__The teen scrubbed a hand over his face again._ _

__Fuck._ _

__***_ _

__The drive home was uneventful. Lots of irritation at traffic until he got into a less populated area. He listened to music that he had stolen from Peter at some point, he wasn't quite sure, for most of the drive._ _

__Only when he got closer to Beacon Hills did he turn the music to something much more like himself. For fear that somehow, someone, somewhere would know, perhaps? Like crossing the barrier into his home town would make everyone aware of his presence, and that somehow they would know that he had been spending so much time with Peter? Not even spent his time with, but also had a crush on?_ _

__As Stiles pulled into his driveway and parked, he groaned, dropping his forehead to the wheel of the Jeep._ _

__What a complete mess._ _

__Still, the cruiser was in the garage when he pulled up. It was a comforting sight to see that his father was there, that he would be greeted with a big smile and a warm hug._ _

__He needed one. He wanted to be able to drop the guard he always had up around Peter._ _

__Just before Stiles slipped out of the car, he slid his phone out of his pocket, pressed on the name of the person who was at the top of his messages, as always._ _

__"I'm home," he texted Peter quickly. "No car wrecks. No waste of your precious time."_ _

__Without waiting for a response, Stiles stuffed his phone back into his pocket, grabbed his bags (mostly laundry, like every good college student. Really, all that tuition money and they can't afford better washers and dryers?), and headed into the house.  
The smell of home hit him immediately, as well as the smell of one of the only meals his father knew how to cook well. Chili, homemade chili. Stiles took in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to calm down. He didn't have to think about this crush situation with Peter for a whole week. He could just spend the time gaming, watching TV, sleeping in _his_ bed, and spending time with his dad._ _

__Who really should be the only older man in his life. Why did Stiles always have to complicate things?_ _

__"Daddy?" He called out. "'M home."_ _

__"Hey, kiddo," his dad answered back from the kitchen before he actually appeared through the door. He had a wide grin on his face, all warm, familiar eye crinkles and wrinkled sheriff's uniform. "I just added the finishing touches to the chili."_ _

__The next moment, his dad was wrapping him in enveloping, welcoming arms, and Stiles dropped his bag without a second thought, pulling himself close. It was comforting. It was exactly what he needed. He practically melted into it, aching for this kind of familiarity and unconditional love. His dad always made him feel like a little kid again, but that wasn’t a bad thing._ _

__It had been too long since winter break._ _

__"What's up, kid? How's school?" His dad asked before looking down at the bags as he stepped away. "I see you brought your closet home. Which means Parrish totally lost the bet."_ _

__"You made a bet on me bringing clothes home?" Stiles asked, rolling his eyes fondly._ _

__"Yeah. For some reason he thought you were more independent." His father ruffled his hair (which, uncool, dad) before grabbing the bags and putting them at the bottom of the stairs. "You can take those up later. Right now, you're coming in here and telling me that this isn't spicy enough."_ _

__"Dad, you're going to give yourself heartburn," Stiles answered, following his father into the kitchen, right at the center of the good smell. God, it was good to be home. Why had he felt so reluctant before? "Not to mention an ulcer. There also better be ground turkey in there, and not beef."_ _

__"Can you wait two seconds before lecturing me?" His dad asked, but it was fond, and warm, and comfortable. "I promise, the station has been forcing me to eat more vegetables and fruits than you can imagine. I'm _allowed_ one night of misbehavior in honor of my son being home, and _you_ can't tell me otherwise."_ _

__"I feel like you’re using me for an excuse,” Stiles mumbled, before he grinned. “You are gonna be so mad when I tell you all the horrible things I ate without you.” He went to grab two bowls out of the cabinet._ _

__"Oh man, don't torture me."_ _

__It felt good being home, joking with his father. They ate dinner, Stiles filling him in on classes and things involving school, Jaylen, and Thomas. But he stayed far away from Peter, and his more extracurricular activities. It felt bad lying to him again, but he wasn't going to keep it for long. Stiles knew he should let the guy know. Tell him that there were just as many supernatural problems at school as there were in Beacon Hills. But maybe he just wanted the rest of the night first, before letting him know?_ _

__His dad filled him in on everything happening around the town. Apparently there weren't as many supernatural problems lately, or at least Scott and the pack were handling them. Stiles simply nodded and stuffed a few spoonfuls of chili in this mouth when that part of the conversation came up._ _

__Then after dinner, and after a few hours of TV, the sheriff finally went to bed, and Stiles dragged his bags upstairs, collapsed on his own bed._ _

__For the first time since he was in the house, he grabbed his phone out of his pocket, and looked at his messages. One from Jaylen, three from Thomas._ _

__And one from Peter. "Good to hear. I'll be waiting. Enjoy home."_ _

__Stiles ignored the warmth again, buried his face unceremoniously into his pillow, and fought the butterflies in his stomach while trying to fall asleep._ _

__This was stupid. He wasn't supposed to be a kid anymore. Or get stupid teenager crushes._ _

__***_ _

__"Hey kid, you got a minute?" His dad asked, walking into his room a few days later. He was dressed in relaxed clothes after having mowed the law, wiping off his hands on a red washcloth._ _

__Stiles spun his chair while closing his laptop. "Yup, Daddy-o, what's up?"_ _

__The sheriff walked forward, reaching back and grabbing something from his back pocket. A small present, wrapped a little haphazardly. His dad never really did have good present-wrapping skills; normally Stiles had to do all the wrapping. But he appreciated it none-the-less. "I got this for you, with your birthday coming up and all. That and the normal card."_ _

__"Dad, you didn't have to," Stiles said immediately, and it was true. His father really didn't have much money to spare._ _

__"None of that now," the man answered, holding his hands up in defense. "It's going to be your birthday, you're eighteen, and you need a present. And maybe I'll even allow a shot." He winked._ _

__Stiles laughed nervously, "wow, yeah, never had alcohol before, cool, what does it taste like?"_ _

__His dad gave him a fake glare, and a firm clap on the shoulder. "Son, that is complete bullshit. Now come on, open it."_ _

__Stiles flashed him a grin before delicately pulling off the wrapping paper. He pulled out a small box, and gave his dad a quick, suspicious look. "So, I'm gonna guess it's not porno."_ _

__"Just open the damn box," his dad said, trying not to turn red as he dug his hands into his pockets._ _

__Slowly, Stiles pulled out a piece of paper, flipped upside-down so he couldn't read the written part immediately. But as he turned it over, his eyes flickered across the lines, "You are now the proud owner of a bat signed by David Wright."_ _

__For a moment, Stiles stared at it, then practically jumped out of his skin. "Holy shit! Dad! What?!" He read it again, jumped. "You mean like, New York Mets David Wright, right? Please do not be messing with me!"_ _

__"The one and only." A huge grin had spread out across his dad's face._ _

__Stiles' heart was racing; he jumped up and down a moment before grabbing his dad in a hug. "Dad! You seriously shouldn't have! Those bats are ridiculous! Not that I'm complaining!"_ _

__Laughing, his father hugged him back. "Eh, I think I like you enough, you might be worth it."_ _

__Stiles spout of a hundred "thank-yous" at once before looking around his room quickly. "Okay, this was enough of a surprise, where is the bat?"_ _

__"Check under your bed."_ _

__"It's been in here the whole time? You are devious. No wonder where I get it from."_ _

__Stiles ran to grab under his bed, pulled out the long, slender box._ _

__Honestly. Best birthday gift ever._ _

__***_ _

__Toward the end of break, Stiles finally got up the nerve to tell his father what had been happening at school. Who he had been spending a majority of his time with, what sorts of things they'd been getting into, and just how much his life was in danger._ _

__It really sucked after the whole “best gift in the world” thing._ _

__"Uh, hey Dad?" He asked, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen while his father looked over case files. It was so familiar. When the sheriff looked up over his glasses, but didn't answer, Stiles finally walked in and took a seat down at the table. "So, I kinda have maybe been slightly abstaining from mentioning a few things at school."_ _

__"Ah," his father said, leaning back in his chair and sliding his glasses off. "How did I know?"_ _

__"Because there's no way I could have adjusted to life away from you and the rest of the pack so quickly while also dropping what I did here at Beacon Hills? I'm not very good at the whole, cold-turkey thing?"_ _

__"Yeah...that was pretty much it." His dad pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed under his eyes. "Okay. Lay it on me. You in trouble? You in danger? Scott's not down there to..."_ _

__"No, no, I mean, yeah, I'm in danger sometimes, but I'm okay. I actually--I have a pretty good protector."_ _

__The raised eyebrows. The raised eyebrows were always a bad sign. "This...y'know, supernatural stuff?"_ _

__"Yeah," Stiles answered, his hand finding the back of his neck. "Actually, like, I need to show you something really important first, before anything else. It's super sweet, in my opinion, but I just need you to like, not get freaked out or something, okay?"_ _

__"No promises..." Crossed arms, oh God. Stiles swallowed hard._ _

__But he had to do something. Slowly, he lifted his hand into the air, and with it, every paper on the table floated up too, crinkling whispers sounding in the quiet of the house as they lifted, bumped into each other. Stiles held it there for a minute before looking at his dad, scared what he might find there. "So, uh...I've been, maybe, you know, learning magic too."_ _

__For a moment, his dad sat in stunned silence, mouth open, hand sliding down his cheek. "Did I send you to Hogwarts?"_ _

__Stiles cracked a smile. "Nah, just, I've been getting some help from some people. You can totally blame all of this on Thomas and Jaylen. They were the ones that found the first body in the woods, and I helped take care of the thing that did it."_ _

__"You helped 'take care' of it?"_ _

__"I mean like, yeah, it was this weird bug thing."_ _

__"Stiles."_ _

__"And I totally helped bring it down. It was gross."_ _

__"Stiles--"_ _

__"But then I kind of just got wrapped up in more stuff, found a magic coach, and I mean, it's totally not affecting my schooling at all. Totally focused on it. Just doing magic too and--"_ _

__"Stiles!" It wasn't a shout, but it was firm._ _

__Stiles took a moment to sigh, not wanting his father to actually speak. He didn't want the disappointment. "Yeah, Dad?"_ _

__"You can do magic?"_ _

__Dumbfounded, just a moment, Stiles sat there before nodding. "Uh, yeah, apparently, I'm this spark, and I can just...I just have a natural ability or something."_ _

__"Uh-huh," the sheriff didn't sound like he believed him somehow. "But you're...still working on your schooling. And even though you're in danger, you have a protector."_ _

__"Yep, that's pretty much it."_ _

__"And this protector..."_ _

__"Is a werewolf." Did he need to tell _all_ the truth just yet?_ _

__"A werewolf."_ _

__"Who is also teaching me magic."_ _

__"Who is also teaching you magic."_ _

__Stiles nodded quickly. "You just gonna keep repeating me?"_ _

__"Possibly."_ _

__They sat there a moment, and Stiles realized he still had the papers in the air. He placed them down quickly, in their correct spots. It was weird that his father wasn’t yelling at him, but Stiles was glad. Actually, he dad seemed kind of impressed actually. "So, um, how's about that shot?"_ _

__"That's the first thing you've said that's made sense."_ _

__The rest of the conversation didn't go too badly. And while his dad was slightly disappointed, maybe more worried; he seemed kind of resigned that this was who Stiles was. And he was glad Stiles hadn't kept up the lie for too long._ _

__His dad also made him do a few more magic tricks, just for fun._ _

__Stiles felt he could breathe again._ _

__Everything had gone great._ _

__His father was great._ _

__***_ _

__But if Stiles had known, hours south, down by the school, a figure had appeared in Peter's apartment, told the wolf that he was anxious to see him again. Set a date and time._ _

__Or that Peter had gone, on full alarm and alert, to the creature's den, and sat before him with crossed legs, and his ever-so-patient composure._ _

__That the wolf had been told to ask three more questions. One being, "how can you help me become Alpha?" In which the creature had laughed hysterically at, with a "my powers are far greater than you're letting yourself imagine, Wolf."_ _

__And the next, "what do I need to do to become Alpha?" In which the creature grinned, saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth, and said: "first, a sacrifice. Then, a display of power. Finally, a murder."_ _

__And the last question, "what do I need to sacrifice?" Because the wolf wanted to start with that, know what he was getting into, though he wasn't above it. He never had been. And the creature had chuckled, low, and gasping, rasping. "Something of great value. A precious heirloom."_ _

__"I don't keep memorabilia," the wolf had stated, low and firm._ _

__"Another lie, Wolf," the creature had answered, holding out a hand. "Your sister’s nails. The photograph of your mother. The memories of your father."_ _

__"Memories?" Peter had asked the creature. His father wasn't anything like Sheriff Stilinski. Not in the least, and not that Stiles would ever know. Memories of Peter’s father, they weren't anything the wolf treasured. So how were they of great value? "I barely knew the man."_ _

__"So many lies. You feel for your father just the same as I for mine. He was a man. He taught you a lesson. Then he died. But that does not mean the experience was not of value to us."_ _

__"You want me to praise my father? Honor him? Share how he was such a _good_ man?"_ _

__"This is not a song for our fathers. Not an ode, a ballad, a memorial. This is not something of honor, for they were not always honorable. This is not a time for remembrance, but to forget. You give me the memories; I will give you the power."_ _

__"I do have a lovely singing voice though, we should do that song."_ _

__"Your memories, Peter Hale. Give me your sacrifice, and the feat of strength will come shortly."_ _

__"And the murder?"_ _

__"You've asked too many questions."_ _

__Stiles didn't know, wouldn’t know, that the werewolf leaned over, let the creature pull memories away in long, wispy, wind-like strings. Stiles didn't know that the werewolf pricked his finger, placed it on the creature's tongue._ _

__Stiles didn't know Peter was going to be Alpha again._ _

__As Peter left, the creature chuckled to itself, pleased with its manipulation. It whispered in the dark of its cave "how strange, innocence."_ _

__At the same moment, Peter muttered, stepping out into the light once more, "how strange, senility."_ _

__All the while, curled up in bed, enjoying the smells and memories of home, the comfort in family, the joy at knowing Stiles had at least one parent, someone to love him no matter what--well, the teen was none-the-wiser._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Book II.


End file.
